Indian 
Summer 


NEW  BORZOI  NOFELS 
FALL,  1922 

THE  QUEST 

Pio   Baroja 
THE  ROOM 

G.  B.  Stern 
ONE  OF  OURS 

Willa  Gather 
A  LOVELY  DAY 

Henry  Ceard 
MARY  LEE 

Geoffrey  Dennis 
TUTORS'  LANE 

Wilmarth   Lewis 
THE  PROMISED  ISLE 

Laurids    Bruun 
THE  RETURN 

Walter  de  la  Mare 
THE    BRIGHT    SHAWL 

Joseph   Hergesheimer 
THE  MOTH  DECIDES 

Edward    Alden    Jewell 
INDIAN  SUMMER 

Emily   Grant    Hutching* 


SU(DCD6R 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  July,  19** 


Bet  up,  eleetrotvped,  and  printed  by  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binghamton,  N.  7. 

Paper  furnished  tni  Perkins-Goodwin  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Bound  by  the  Plimpton  Prcsi,  Norwood,  Mail. 


MANUFACTURED     IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF     AMERICA 


To  Edwin  Hutchings 
My  Inspiration 


213G024   I 


Contents 

Prologue 

I     Lavinia  3 

II     Calvin  6 

III  David  12 

Book  One:    Spring 

IV  Vine  Cottage  21 
V    Judith  Goes  West  26 

VI     The  Trench  Children  32 

VII     Lavinia  Pays  a  Call  43 

VIII     Hal  Marksley  Intrudes  53 

IX     News  from  Bromfield  61 

X     Eileen  Seeks  Counsel  6$ 

XI     Vicarious  Living  76 

XII     The  Poem  Judith  Read  84 

XIII  Eyes  Turned  Homeward  93 

XIV  A  Broken  Axle  101 
XV     Masked  Benefaction  109 

XVI     Coming  Storm  120 

XVII     A  Place  Called  Bromfield  131 

Book  Two :     Summer 

XVIII     Sylvia  139 

XIX     A  Web  in  the  Moonlight  146 

XX     Red  Dawn  153 


Contents 


XXI  The  Cloud  on  the  Horizon 

XXII  Midsummer  Magic 

XXIII  Lavinia  Sees  the  Abyss 

XXIV  One  Way  Out 

XXV  A  Wedding  at  Vine  Cottage 

XXVI  The  Light  Within 

XXVII  David's  Children 

XXVIII  Indian  Summer 

XXIX  The  Truth  that  is  Clean 

XXX  Katharsis 

XXXI  A  New  Hilltop 

Book  Three:     Belated  Frost 

XXXII  Lavinia  Flounders 

XXXIII  The  Statue  and  the  Bust 

XXXIV  Lavinia's  Credo 
XXXV  The  Credo  at  Work 

XXXVI  Consummation 

XXXVII  In  the  "Personal"  Column 

XXXVIII  The  Greater  Love 

XXXIX  Lavinia 


231 

237 
248 

256 
263 
268 
274 
282 


Prologue 


Lavinia 

i 

Tense  quiet  filled  the  crooked  streets  of  Bromfield, 
the  quiet  that  presages  storm.  Vine  Larimore  looked 
anxiously  from  the  window.  She  was  not  afraid  of  tem- 
pests :  she  reveled  in  them.  But  a  great  fear  had  gripped 
her  in  the  night.  Why  had  Calvin  failed  to  stop  on 
his  way  home  from  the  station?  What  business  was 
it  that  took  Calvin  Stone  to  Rochester  every  week  or 
two?  Another  sweetheart?  She  would  not  give  the 
hideous  thought  house  room.  Was  not  she,  Lavinia 
Larimore,  the  handsomest  girl  in  Bromfield?  Was  not 
her  father,  next  to  the  Calvins  and  the  Stones,  the  most 
important  man  in  the;  rusty  old  New  York  village? 
Had  she  not  worn  Calvin's  ring  for  three  endless  years? 
Most  of  the  girls  in  her  set  were  already  married,  and 
at  New  Year's  she  had  worn  the  green  stockings  for  her 
seventeen-year-old  sister,  Isabel.  The  wedding  dretss- 
she  had  made  with  so  much  care  and  skill,  two  years 
agone,  hid  its  once  modish  lines  beneath  the  cover  of  the, 
cedar  chest — the  hope  chest  that  Calvin  had  ordered 
for  her  at  Stephen  Trench's  shop. 

Calvin's  father  had  promised  them  the  old  house  on 
High  Street,  to  be  remodeled  and  furnished  with  the 

3 


4  Indian  Summer 

best  that  Rochester  could  provide.  Mr.  Trench  had 
twice  figured  on  the  contract,  and  yet  Calvin  dallied. 
It  was  first  one  pretext  and  then  another.  Once,  when 
he  asked  her  what  she  wanted  for  her  birthday — it  was 
the  latter  part  of  May,  and  Lavinia  would  be  twenty — 
she  took  her  courage  in  her  shaking  hands  and  pleaded 
£or  a  wedding.  It  was  an  unmaidenly  thing.  Bromfield 
would  have  branded  her  as  bold.  But  Calvin  saw  in  her 
abashed  eyes  the  image  of  his  own  dereliction.  To  be 
sure  he  still  loved  her.  He  had  always  intended  to  make 
good  his  pledge.  They  would  be  married  the  middle 
of  August,  when  the  G.  A.  R.  was  giving  a  great  ex- 
cursion to  New  Ylork  City.  That  would  be  a  honey- 
moon well  worth  the  waiting1. 

And  then,  on  the  second  of  July,  the  President  was 
shot.  Vine  was  shocked,  as  everyone  was;  but  what 
had  that  to  do  with  her  wedding?  Calvin  could  not 
think  of  marrying  while  Mr.  Garfield's  life  was  in  doubt. 

The  President  had  died,  and  it  was  now  October. 
•Vine  saw  Calvin  almost  daily.  In  a  little  town,  with  the 
Larimore  home  near  the  middle  of  the  principal  street, 
such  contact  was  almost  inevitable.  But  Lavinia  found 
no  avenue  of  approach.  Calvin  was  usually  sullen  or 
distraught.  Sometimes  he  took  the  long  detour  across 
the  bridge  and  up  behind  Stephen  Trench's  carpenter 
shop,  on  his  way  to  and  from  the  bank.  This  morning, 
with  a  storm  brewing,  he  could  hardly  risk  that  walk. 
He  must  pass  the  house  any  minute.  She  would  stop 
him  and  demand  an  explanation.  She  knew  just  what 
she  wanted  to  say,  and  when  she  was  thoroughly  aroused 
her  tongue  never  failed  her. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  grass-grown  flag-stones,  an 
eager  step.  Lavinia  was  on  her  feet — her  fury  gone, 
she  knew  not  where,  ,or  why.  He  was  coming.  In  an- 


Prologue  5 

other  minute  she  would  be  in  his  arms,  listening  to  the 
same  old  excuses,  feeding  her  hope  on  the  same  old 
shreds  of  promise.  And  then  .  .  .  The  front  door 
opened  and  Ellen  Porter's  interrogating  eyes  met  hers. 
Ellen  and  Ted  Larimore  were  soon  to  be  married,  but 
the  early  morning  call  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  fever 
of  activity  that  had  disturbed  the  routine  of  two  house- 
holds for  a  month  past. 

"Vine,  did  Calvin  show  you  what  he  bought  in  Roches- 
ter yesterday?" 

"Who  told  you  he  bought  anything? 

"Papa.  He  saw  him  in  the  jewelry  store.  He  was 
looking  at  wedding  rings.  He  turned  his  back  when 
he  saw  somebody  from  Bromfield;  but  papa  was  almost 
sure  he  bought  one.  Viny,  are  you  going  to  beat  Ted 
and  me  out,  after  all?" 

Lavinia  thought  for  a  moment  that  she  would  suffo- 
cate. The  blood  pounded  in  her  ears  and  the  room 
swam  dizzily  before  her.  And  then  the  storm  broke. 
She  tried  to  fashion  some  convincing  reply;  but  the  thun- 
der was  deafening  and  the  rain  beat  loudly  against  the 
windows.  She  ran  to  get  a  floor  cloth,  when  little  riv- 
ulets began  to  trickle  over  the  sill.  Ellen  sought  to 
help  her  with  the  transom,  that  was  seldom  closed  from 
spring  to  fall,  when  the  door  was  pushed  open  violently 
and  Ted  Larimore,  dripping  and  out  of  temper,  burst 
into  the  room.  He  had  forgotten  something.  No,  he 
could  not  stop  to  change  his  coat.  He  would  take  Ellen 
back  to  the  store  with  him.  For  this,  at  least,  his  sis- 
ter was  grateful.  By  noon  she  would  have  seen  Calvin 
— would  know  the  meaning  of  the  ring.  She  would  see 
Calvin  ...  if  she  had  to  go  to  the  bank.  Things  could 
not  go  on  this  way. 


II    Calvin 


While  Ted  and  Ellen  strolled  down  Main  Street* 
oblivious  of  the  rain  that  swirled  upon  them,  now  from 
the  east,  now  from  the  south,  and  while  Lavinia  plunged 
with  headlong  haste  into  the  morning's  housework,  a 
conversation  was  under  way  in  the  dining-room  of  the 
Stone  mansion.  Calvin  was  late  coming  down  to  break- 
fast and  his  father  had  waited  for  him. 

"You  have  something  on  your  mind,  and  you  might  as 
well  out  with  it,"  the  elder  was  saying,  as  he  drew  his 
napkin  from  his  collar  and  folded  it  crookedly. 

Calvin  drummed  the  table  with  uneasy  fingers. 

"Gambling  again?" 

"No,  Sir." 

"Drinking?" 

"No,  Sir." 

"What  then?  Look  here,  Calvin  Stone,  you  can't 
fool  your  mother  and  me.  You  act  like  a  sheep-steal- 
ing dog.  What  were  you  doing  in  Rochester  yester- 
day?" 

"I  was  married." 

The  words  fell  with  the  dull  impact  of  a  mass  of  putty. 
His  father's  eyes  opened  wide,  then  narrowed,  and  his 
huge  shoulders  bent  forward. 

"Who  did  you  marry?     Vine  wasn't  with  you." 

"That's  just  the  trouble,  father.  I  didn't  marry  Vine. 
Fact  is,  I  didn't  intend  to  get  married  at  all.  Lettie 
took  me  by  surprise  when  she  told  me — " 

6 


Prologue  7 

"Lettiewho?" 

"Arlette  Fournier.  She's  French — and  a  stunner.  I 
met  her  at  a  dance  last  winter.  Oh,  she's  a  good  fellow. 
She'll  keep  it  secret  till  I  get  out  of  this  scrape  with  Vine. 
She  wouldn't  want  me  to  bring  her  to  Bromfield  for  a 
year  or  two." 

Stone  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a 
vehemence  that  rattled  the  breakfast  china. 

"Have  you  no  conscience,  no  decency?  How  are  you 
going  to  square  yourself  with  that  girl?" 

"I  couldn't  square  myself  with  both  of  them.  I've 
been  thinking  it  over,  since  I  got  home  last  night.  I 
thought  I'd  play  on  Vine's  pride  .  .  .  snub  her  openly, 
you  know,  so  that  she'd  get  in  a  huff  and  throw  me  over. 
Then  I  could  afterwards  pretend  I  married  the  other 
girl  for  spite.  That  would  save  Vine's  feelings." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  you  miserable  coward. 
You  are  going  to  Viny  Larimore  this  very  morning,  and 
confess  what  you've  done." 

"No.     I  am  not!" 

"I  say  you  are." 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  I'd 
never  get  out  of  her  house  alive.  You  never  saw  Vine 
when  she  was  mad.  I'd  go  back  to  Rochester — I'd — 
jump  in  the  river,  before  I'd  face  her.  I  don't  have  to 
stay  here.  Lettie  has  money  of  her  own,  that  we  could 
live  off  of.  She  doesn't  want  to  live  in  this  ugly  village, 
any  way." 

"You  could  take  your  living  from  this  stranger,  this 
foreigner  that  nobody  ever  heard  of?  You — you  say 
she  is  rich?  Who  are  her  people?" 

"Father,  won't  you — " 

Calvin's  voice,  a  moment  before  raucous  with  aisur- 


8  Indian  Summer 

ance  and  determination,  broke  into  waves  of  impotent 
pleading.  He  had  perceived  the  flaw  in  his  parent's 
armour.  To  press  home  his  advantage  was  the  task  of 
the  moment. 

"Her  uncle  is  one  of  the  leading  business  men  of 
Rochester,  and  she  has  money  in  her  own  right.  She's 
been  an  orphan  since  she  was  six  years  old — sent  over 
here  from  France  by  herself,  after  her  parents  died, 
and  nobody  to  look  after  her.  Father,  won't  you  go 
and  staighten  it  out  with  Vine?  Honest,  I  can't." 

The  elder  Stone  spat  with  disgust. 

II 

In  slicker  and  high  rubber  boots  Calvin  took  the  long 
muddy  road  to  the  bank.  Fr.om  every  rain-drenched 
shrub  along  the  way  Lavinia  Larimore's  outraged  woman- 
hood glared  at  him.  For  an  hour  he  tried  to  work, 
conscious  of  his  father's  eyes  with  their  unfeeling  con- 
demnation. When  the  strain  became  unbearable,  he  took 
a  silver-mounted  pistol  from  the  safe — with  surreptitious 
gesture,  yet  making  sure  that  the  object  in  his  hand  did 
not  escape  notice — and  thrust  it  into  the  drawer  of  his 
desk.  The  threat  bore  fruit. 

Mr.  Stone  took  down  hat  and  umbrella  and  went  forth 
into  the  abating  storm.  He  was  not  a  man  to  mince 
words  when  he  had  an  unpleasant  task  before  him.  Vine 
greeted  him  at  the  door.  Her  dark  cheeks  blanched. 

"What — where  is  Calvin?  Is  he  sick?  Has  any- 
thing happened  to  him?" 

"I  wish  to  God  he  was  dead.  Viny,  I  hope  you  don't 
care  any  too  much  for  that  young  scoundrel.  He  isn't 
worthy  of  the  love  of  a  decent  girl." 

"He  hasn't —     You  mean,  he  has  embezzled  money? 


Prologue  9 

Mr.  Stone,  you  won't  let  it  be  found  out?  I  wouldn't 
go  back  on  him  for — Oh,  you  won't.  .  .  ." 

"I'd  brain  him  if  he  ever  touched  a  penny  that  didn't 
belong  to  him." 

"Then  what — what  has  he  done?" 

"He  was  married,  yesterday,  to  a  girl  in  Rochester." 

"Married!"  And  then,  in  an  incredulous  whisper, 
"married." 

A  moment  only  Lavinia  stood  numb  and  baffled. 
Then  the  words  p.oured  in  a  rising  tide  of  indignation, 
rage,  fury.  Three  years  she  had  waited,  and  for  this. 
She  might  have  had  any  one  of  a  dozen — the  finest 
young  men  in  Bromfield.  Calvin  Stone  had  won  her 
away  from  them  all.  He  had  deprived  her  of  her  girl- 
hood, her  opportunities — everything  but  her  self-respect 
She  had  known  for  two  years  that  he  was  a  drunkard 
and  a  gambler.  She  had  clung  to  him,  because  it  was 
her  Christian  duty  to  reform  him.  His  parents  would 
not  have  her  to  blame  when  he  reeled  into  a  drunkard's 
grave.  It  was  fortunate  that  some  fool  woman  had 
taken  the  burden  from  her  shoulders.  She  would  have 
stuck  to  her  promise,  in  the  face  of  certain  misery.  The 
Larimores  had  that  kind  of  honour — such  honour  as  all 
the  Calvin  and  Stone  money  could  not  buy.  But  now  she 
need  no  longer  keep  up  the  pretense  of  caring  for  a  man 
who  was  not  fit  to  wipe  the  mud  from  her  shoes.  She 
had  tried  to  hold  together  what  little  manhood  was  in 
him — to  spare  his  parents  the  disgrace  he  was  sure  to 
bring  upon  them. 

Once  and  again  the  bank  president,  who  was  wont  to 
command  silence,  to  be  granted  a  respectful  hearing  in 
the  highest  councils  of  the  town,  sought  to  breast  the  tide 
of  her  anger.  His  interruptions  were  swept  away  like 
spindrift.  He  wanted  to  offer  financial  restitution,  since 


io  Indian  Summer 

no  other  was  possible.  She  met  the  proposal  with  scorn. 
Money  could  not  cover  up  the  disgrace  of  such  a  consum- 
mation. Calvin  might  rue  his  bargain,  and  come  back 
to  plead  for  forgiveness.  The  desperately  proffered 
balm  brought  a  more  bitter  outburst.  She  would  not  be 
any  man's  second  choice.  No,  the  damage  was  irrepar- 
able. It  was  done. 

Ill 

As  the  man  of  finance  turned  the  interview  over  in  his 
mind,  a  curious  balance  was  struck — and  his  heart 
softened  towards  his  son.  There  might  have  been 
other  tongue-lashings.  No  woman  could  have  achieved 
such  fluency  without  practice.  Before  he  reached  the 
front  door  of  the  little  bank,  Lavinia  was  in  her  own 
room,  her  compact  figure  half  submerged  in  the  feather 
bed,  her  hot  tears  of  shame  and  chagrin  wetting  the 
scarlet  stars  of  the  quilt  her  own  deft  fingers  had  pieced. 
She  had  lost  her  temper — it  was  easily  misplaced — but 
the  scene  she  had  raised  had  no  share  in  her  memory  of 
the  encounter.  Her  humiliation  blotted  all  else  from 
view.  It  was  not  only  that  she  had  aimed  at  the  high- 
est, and  lost.  She  loved  Calvin  Stone  with  all  the  pas- 
sion of  a  fiery  nature — loved  him  with  a  depth  and  inten- 
sity that  might  be  gauged  by  the  hate  that  loomed  on  the 
surface  of  her  wrath.  And  there  was  no  one  in  the 
whole  world  to  whom  she  could  open  her  heart. 

Mrs.  Larimore  knew  there  had  been  a  quarrel,  a  quar- 
rel that  outran  the  morning's  tempest  in  violence;  but 
when  she  ventued  to  ask  what  the  trouble  was,  Lavinia 
told  her  curtly  that  it  was  none  of  her  business.  Now 
she  stood  outside  the  door,  listening  to  her  daughter's 
stormy  sobbing.  She  had  never  been  on  intimate  terms 
with  her  children,  and  the  relationship  with  her  eldest 


Prologue  II 

daughter  was  most  casual.  A  headstrong  girl.  Where 
she  got  her  ambition — unless  it  was  a  heritage  from  her 
Grandmother  Larimore — no  ,one  could  say.  The  other 
members  of  the  family  were  easygoing,  content  with  the 
day's  pleasure  and  profit.  But  Lavinia  was  avid  for 
work,  for  praise,  for  position.  She  would  shine  as  Mrs. 
Calvin  Stone,  if  ever.  .  .  .  And  then  Mrs.  Larimore 
began  afresh  to  wonder. 


Ill    David 


Early  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  making 
furtive  efforts  to  slip  past  the  cloud-guard  and  repair 
the  damage  the  rain  had  wrought,  Lavinia  stepped 
briskly  from  her  room,  clad  in  her  best  blue  silk  poplin. 
An  hour  past  she  had  been  bathing  her  eyes,  and  her 
mirror  satisfied  her  that  the  redness  and  swelling  were 
all  gone.  She  went  straight  to  her  father's  store,  across 
from  the  bank.  Ellen  Porter  would  be  there,  behind  the 
bookkeeper's  desk. 

"I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,  Nell,"  she  began 
— noting  the  hollow  in  her  voice,  and  striving  against  it. 
"I  want  you  to  take  this  to  Mr.  Stone." 

She  held  a  small,  neatly  tied  parcel  in  her  hand. 
They  walked  to  the  wide  doorway  and  stood  watching 
the  sun-glints  in  the  pools  of  the  muddy  street,  each 
waiting  for  the  other  to  venture  on  some  hospitable 
avenue  of  speech.  Ellen  considered  her  thin-soled  shoes, 
scarce  dry  from  the  morning's  wetting,  glanced  at  the 
precarious  stepping  stones,  half  a  block  away  .  .  .  and 
caught  sight  of  David  Trench,  coming  towards  them. 
She  beckoned  him. 

David  was  a  shy,  fair-cheeked  youth,  a  few  months 
older  than  Lavinia  and  Ellen.  The  three  had  been 
christened  the  same  Sunday  in  the  little  Presbyterian 
church.  They  had  gone  through  the  village  school  to- 
gether, and  David  and  Ellen  sang  leading  parts  in  the 
church  choir.  It  was  Dave  Trench  who  sharpened  their 
skates,  pulled  their  sleds  up  the  hill,  tuned  their  pianos, 

12 


Prologue  13 

repaired  their  furniture,  took  them  home  from  Sunday 
evening  services  when  no  other  escort  was  available. 

"Vine  wants  you  to  do  an  errand  for  her,  Davy. 
Would  you  mind  taking  this  little  package  over  to  the 
bank?" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  going  to  Halifax  for  her." 

Ellen  laid  the  parcel  in  his  hand.  He  was  to  give  it 
to  Mr.  Stone.  In  no  case  was  he  to  give  it  to  Calvin. 
As  his  lithe  figure  melted  into  the  gloom  of  the  building 
across  the  way,  she  turned  for  the  information  that  was 
her  due. 

"It's  my  engagement  ring." 

"What!" 

"Yes,  I've  given  Calvin  the  mitten.  His  father  came 
down  this  morning  and  laboured  with  me  for  more  than 
an  hour  to  get  me  to  change  my  mind;  but  I  told  him  I 
would  never  marry  a  man  who  smoked  and  drank  and 
gambled.  That  was  what  I  was  about  to  tell  you  this 
morning,  when  Ted  ran  in  ,on  us.  I've  had  him  on  pro- 
bation since  last  spring — for  two  years,  in  fact.  He's 
promised  me  over  and  over.  And  yesterday,  after  he 
bought  the  ring  for  our  wedding,  he  went  and  got  roar- 
ing drunk — fell  into  the  hands  of  some  disreputable 
woman — and —  Why,  Ellen,  when  he  stopped  at  the 
house  last  night  he  was  so  maudlin  that  he  couldn't  give 
an  account  of  where  he'd  been  or  what  had  happened  to 
him.  You  can  guess  how  we  parted.  He  told  his 
father  this  morning  that  he'd  go  to  the  dogs  if  I  turned 
him  down.  Mr.  Stone  almost  got  down  on  his  knees  to 
me,  but  it  was  all  wasted.  When  I'm  done,  I'm  done." 

Ellen  Porter  had  but  one  grievous  fault.  When  she 
found  herself  unable  to  keep  a  secret,  she  did  not  scruple 
to  seek  help.  Lavinia  thought  afterward  it  had  been  al- 
most an  inspiration  .  .  .  telling  Ellen.  By  Sunday  it 


14  Indian  Summer 

would  be  all  over  town,  each  one  of  Ellen's  confidantes 
pledged  to  hold  the  revelation  sacred.  She  knew,  too, 
how  Calvin's  lapse  from  virtue  would  grow  with  each 
fresh  telling  of  the  story.  By  another  Sunday  it  would 
be  murder  he  had  committed. 

II 

The  ring  delivered,  Vine  went  home  to  plan  the  next 
move.  That  she  must  leave  Bromfield  before  the  truth 
of  Calvin's  marriage  leaked  out,  she  did  not  so  much  as 
debate.  There  was  an  uncle  in  the  wilds  of  Illinois. 
Once  she  had  visited  him,  with  the  result  that  the  buffalo 
and  Indian  frontier  had  receded  some  leagues  farther 
to  the  west.  A  coal  mining  town.  She  remembered 
that  some  adventurous  investors  dreamed  of  oil  and 
natural  gas.  There  ought  to  be  employment  for  an 
energetic,  fairly  well  educated  girl  who  was  accustomed 
to  hard  work. 

Lavinia  Larimore  had  not  been  blessed  with  an  elastic 
nature,  but  in  moments  of  desperation  she  manifested 
something  like  the  elasticity  of  ivory.  She  could  yield, 
yet  show  no  after-trace  of  the  yielding.  By  night  her 
plans  were  well  on  the  way  towards  maturity.  She 
would  write  to  her  uncle,  and  wait  for  a  reply  before  tell- 
ing her  parents  of  her  purpose. 

She  opened  the  small  drawer  of  the  secretary,  only  to 
discover  that  it  was  bare  of  stamps.  Her  brother  Theo- 
dore would  be  going  to  Ellen's,  and  the  post  office  was 
not  far  out  of  his  way.  But  Ted  would  ask  questions. 
No,  she  would  wait  for  David  Trench.  He  and  his 
father  worked  at  the  shop  every  evening,  and  he  would 
be  passing  at  nine. 

Up  to  this  point  Lavinia  had  thought  of  David  as 
nothing  more  than  an  errand  boy.  But  as  she  sat  by  the 


Prologue  15 

window  in  the  gathering  dusk,  he  began  to  change  before 
her  fevered  eyes,  to  assert  his  height  and  the  grace  of 
his  strong  young  hands.  She  had  never  thought  about 
JDavid's  hands  before.  Strange  that  the  hard  work  had 
never  rendered  them  unshapely.  Calvin's  hands  were 
pudgy,  the  fingers  short  and  thick.  She  had  always  been 
conscious  of  Calvin's  hands — had  viewed  them  almost 
with  repugnance  even  when  she  craved  their  touch  the 
most. 

David's  smile  was  beautiful.  He  would  grow  into  a 
fine-lo,oking  man,  like  his  father.  Now  that  they  had 
taken  to  refinishing  antique  furniture,  there  would  be 
money  in  the  shop  for  two  households.  David  would 
always  be  kind.  He  might  even.  .  .  .  What  was  she 
thinking!  A  startled  laugh  burst  from  her  lips.  Davy, 
little  Davy  Trench!  With  a  suppressed,  "Huh!  I 
might  go  farther  and  fare  worse,"  she  tossed  the  absurd 
thought  aside.  A  moment  later  it  presented  itself  in  an- 
other guise.  She  was  still  toying  with  the  audacious  in- 
truder when  she  heard  David's  slow,  regular  step  on  the 
stone  flagging.  Through  the  open  window  she  called  his 
name.  With  nervous  haste  she  lighted  the  tall,  flam- 
boyantly shaded  piano  lamp  and  motioned  him  to  a  chair. 
Then  she  seated  herself  rather  stiffly  on  the  old- 
fashioned  sparking  settee,  her  heart  pounding,  her 
tongue  thick  and  useless. 

"Was  there  something  I  could  do  for  you,  Vine?" 

"You  wouldn't — mind — going  back  to  the  post  office, 
Dave?  I  want  to  get  off  an  important  letter  to  my  uncle. 
He  wants  me  to  come  out  to  Illinois,  and — there  isn't  a 
stamp  in  the  house." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  you  can't  send  it  tonight.  The  post 
office  was  closed  when  I  came  by,  and  the  last  mail  goes 
up  to  Rochester  at  half-past  eight.  If  you  had  only  told 


1 6  Indian  Summer 

me  sooner.  .  .  .  I'll  be  glad  to  stop  by  and  get  it  in  the 
morning,  on  my  way  to  the  shop." 

"Oh,  well,  it's  not  so  urgent.  I'll  have  it  ready  before 
breakfast.  You  won't  forget  to  stop?" 

"Why,  of  course  not,  Vine." 

"David,  would  you  be  sorry  if  I  should  go  away  from 
Bromfield — to  stayj?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  Bromfield  without  you." 

Lavinia  Larimore  took  the  bit  in  her  teeth. 

"Dave,  what  do  you  think  Ellen  Porter  was  saying  to 
me  when  you  came  to  the  store,  this  afternoon?" 

"I  couldn't  guess." 

"She  said  it  was  all  over  town  that  you  and  I  are  going 
to  be  married." 

"I — "  The  boy  gasped.  He  gripped  the  edge  of  his 
chair  and  the  blood  died  out  of  his  cheeks.  "Vine,  you 
oughtn't  to  make  fun  of  me  that  way.  It  isn't  kind." 

"I  wasn't  making  fun  of  you,  Davy.  Honest  to  good- 
ness, everybody  has  noticed  how  much  we  have  been  to- 
gether lately." 

"But  Calvin?" 

"Pooh!  I  broke  off  with  him  long  ago.  Dave,  are 
you  asleep,  that  you  don't  know  it  is  all  over  between 
Calvin  and  me?" 

"I — I  am  afraid  I'm  dreaming  now." 

"No,  you  aren't.  You  are  broad  awake,  and  I'm  tell- 
ing you  the  truth.  I  would  not  marry  Calvin  Stone  if 
he  was  the  last  man  left  on  earth.  He  is  a  low-lived 
gambler — and  I  despise  him.  He  isn't  worth  your  little 
finger." 

David  slipped  from  his  chair  and  gained  the  settee, 
somehow,  his  knees  knocking  together. 

"Vine,  do  you  mean —  Would  I  be  a  fool  to — " 
Then  his  lips  found  hers. 


Prologue  17 

At  midnight  David  Trench  stumbled  drunkenly  home, 
his  head  bumping  the  stars,  while  Lavinia  took  the  two- 
year-old  wedding  dress  from  the  cedar  chest  and  planned 
to  modernize  its  lines. 


Book  One 
Spring 


IV    Vine  Cottage 


The  cottage  had  been  vacant  almost  four  months,  an 
economic  waste  that  cut  deeply  into  Lavinia  Trench's  pin- 
money.  Not  that  David  stinted  her  in  the  matter  of 
funds.  The  purse  strings  had  always  lain  loosely  in 
David's  hands.  But  her  penurious  soul,  bent  on  mak- 
ing the  best  possible  showing  of  whatever  resources  came 
within  her  reach,  rebelled  at  the  insolent  idleness  of  in- 
vested capital.  Vine  Cottage  had  been  hers,  to  do  with 
as  she  pleased,  since  the  completion  of  the  big  Colonial 
mansion  that  housed  the  remnant  of  the  Trench  family. 
There  were  not  half-a-dozen  furnished  residences  to  let 
in  Springdale,  and  that  this  one  should  have  been  un- 
occupied since  the  middle  of  November  was  inexplicable. 

"You  haven't  half  way  tried  to  rent  it,"  the  woman 
charged,  her  eyes  shifting  from  her  husband's  face  to 
the  cottage  beyond  the  low  stone  wall,  with  its  sullenly 
drawn  blinds  and  its  air  of  insensate  content.  Her 
glance  rested  appraisingly  on  the  broad  veranda,  now 
banked  with  wet  February  snow;  the  little  glass-enclosed 
breakfast  room  that  had  been  her  .own  conservatory,  in 
the  years  gone  by;  the  sturdy-throated  chimney,  that 
would  never  draw — but  that  none  the  less  served  as  one 
of  the  important  talking  points  of  the  cottage.  An  at- 
tractive set  of  gas  logs  did  away  with  the  danger  of 
stale  wood  smoke  in  the  library;  but  the  chimney  re- 
mained— moss-covered  at  the  corners,  near  the  ground, 
a  hardy  ampelopsis  tracing  a  pattern  of  brown  lace 

21 


22  Indian  Summer 

against  its  dull  red  bricks.  There  were  eight  rooms  and 
a  capacious  attic.  The  furniture  was  excellent.  There 
was  a  garage,  too,  with  living  quarters  for  the  servants. 
In  the  year  of  grace,  nineteen  hundred  and  nine,  there 
were  not  many  residences  in  Springdale  with  garages. 
"I  heard  at  church,  Sunday,  that  Mrs.  Marksley  is 
looking  for  a  house.  Ylou  know,  Vine,  their  place  on 
Grant  Drive  is  for  sale — against  the  building  of  the  new 
house  in  Marksley's  Addition.  Do  you  want  me 


"Mrs.  Marksley!  Humph!"  Lavinia's  black  eyes 
snapped.  It  would  be  to  her  liking  to  have  the  wife  of 
the  richest  man  in  town  as  her  tenant.  Still  .  .  .  the 
situation  had  its  disadvantages,  not  the  least  of  which 
was  that  they  would  be  moving  out  again  in  a  few  months, 
and  the  same  old  problem  to  be  faced  afresh. 

"Do  as  you  like  about  speaking  to  Mr.  Marksley. 
But  remember,  David,  I  don't  recommend  it." 

"It's  your  house,  my  dear.  You  blamed  me  for  offer- 
ing the  place  to  Sylvia  when  she  was  married.  I  told 
you,  last  fall,  I'd  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it." 

He  bent  to  kiss  her,  a  kiss  that  was  part  of  the  com- 
pulsory daily  routine,  and  hurriedly  left  the  house. 
Lavinia  turned  his  words  over  in  her  mind,  and  her 
gorge  rose.  David  was  always  that  way.  You  could 
never  make  him  shoulder  responsibility.  True,  she  had 
wanted  Sylvia  next  door,  where  she  could  watch  over 
her  daughter's  blundering  beginnings  at  housekeeping. 
And  anyone  would  say  it  was  an  honour  to  have  Pro- 
fessor Penrose  in  the  family — even  if  his  salary  was 
small.  But  another  lessee — with  the  boon  of  a  com- 
mercial position  in  Detroit  at  four  times  the  amount  he 
received  from  the  little  denominational  college  in  Spring- 
dale — would  have  been  held  to  the  strict  interpretation 


Vine  Cottage  23 

of  the  lease.  David  would  not  hear  of  Oliver  and  Syl- 
via paying  rent  for  a  house  they  did  not  occupy,  a  senti- 
ment promptly  seconded  by  his  daughter.  Sylvia  never 
failed  to  perceive  her  own  advantage — a  fact  at  once 
gratifying  and  maddening  to  her  mother.  What  if 
David  had  been  like  that?  What  if  ....  She  always 
put  David  aside.  Why  bother  about  the  inevitable? 

II 

Mr.  Trench  did  not  go  at  once  to  the  office  of  Trench 
&  Son,  architects  and  general  building  contractors.  It 
was  important  to  his  domestic  peace  that  some  definite 
step  be  taken  towards  the  renting  of  the  cottage.  He 
would  stop,  he  thought,  at  the  office  of  the  Argus,  and 
insert  a  three-time  advertisement.  He  could  bring  the 
matter  up  with  Henry  Marksley,  for  whom  he  always 
had  some  construction  work  on  hand.  But  second 
thought  deterred  him.  It  might  be  disastrous  to  have 
young  Hal  Marksley  next  door,  if  only  for  a  few  months. 
Hal  was  a  senior  in  the  Presbyterian  college.  His  re- 
cent attentions  to  Eileen  Trench,  just  approaching  her 
sixteenth  birthday,  had  been  disquieting  to  her  father, 
none  the  less  because  of  her  mother's  unconcealed  ap- 
proval. 

Eileen  was  impressionable.  A  youth  of  Hal  Marks- 
ley's — David  searched  his  mind  for  the  word.  Disposi- 
tion? He  was  more  than  amiable.  Principles?  Not 
quite  that,  either.  In  short,  there  was  nothing  he  could 
urge  against  the  young  man  that  had  not  been  set  at 
naught  by  Eileen's  mother.  Money  had  lifted  the 
Marksleys  above  the  restrictions  imposed  upon  com- 
mon people.  Their  life  had  been  unconventional,  at 
times  positively  scandalous.  Eileen's  iconoclastic  spirit 
would  grasp  at  anything  to  justify  her  revolt  against  the 


24  Indian  Summer 

conventional  trammels  of  her  home,  the  puritanical  reg- 
ulations which  served  Lavinia  in  lieu  of  religion.  There 
was  enough  friction  in  that  quarter  already. 

As  he  passed  the  college  campus,  with  its  motley  group 
of  buildings — dingy  red  brick  of  forty  years'  standing, 
and  the  impudent  modernity  of  Bedford  stone  with 
trimmings  of  terra  cotta  and  Carthage  marble — he 
caught  sight  of  Dr.  Schubert's  mud-bespattered  buggy. 
The  grey  mare,  these  ten  years  a  stranger  to  the  restrain- 
ing tether,  nosed  contentedly  in  the  snow  for  the  suc- 
culent sprigs  that  were  already  making  their  appearance 
among  the  exposed  roots  of  the  huge  old  elms.  From 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street  the  family  physician  waved 
a  driving  glove. 

"Wait  a  minute,  David."  He  made  his  way  cau- 
tiously through  the  ooze  of  the  crudely  paved  avenue. 
"I  was  on  my  way  out  to  your  house.  Stopped  to  look 
in  on  a  pneumonia  that  kept  me  up  nearly  all  night. 
Does  Mrs.  Trench  still  want  to  rent  the  cottage?  Or  is 
it  true  that  Sylvia  and  Penrose  are  coming  back?" 

"They  are  well  pleased  with  Detroit.  And  my  wife 
is  most  anxious  for  a  tenant.  You  know,  Doctor,  she 
draws  the  line  on  children  and  dogs." 

"We  ought  to  be  able  to  close  a  very  satisfactory  deal. 
My  old  friend,  Griffith  Ramsay,  spent  the  night  with  us. 
He's  out  here  from  New  York — some  legal  business 
connected  with  the  mines  at  Olive  Hill,  for  a  client 
of  his,  a  Mrs.  Ascott.  The  lady  is  recently  widowed, 
and  in  need  of  some  kind  of  diversion.  I  had  been  tell- 
ing him  about  my  experiments,  my  need  for  a  competent 
assistant  in  the  laboratory,  and  he  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion that  these  two  needs  would  neutralize  each  other. 
Mrs.  Ascott,  having  a  large  financial  stake  in  the  mines, 
would  be  interested  in  the  possibility  of  increasing  the 


Vine  Cottage  25 

value  of  soft  coal.  The  more  he  though  about  it,  the 
greater  his  enthusiasm.  The  one  thing  in  the  way,  he 
thought,  would  be  a  suitable  place  for  her  to  live.  That 
was  when  Vine  Cottage  popped  into  my  mind.  I'll  send 
him  around  to  the  office  to  talk  over  the  details  of  the 
lease  with  you." 


V    Judith  Goes  West 


Mrs.  Ascott  had  an  early  appointment  with  her  at- 
torney. An  early  appointment  necessitated  her  catch- 
ing the  nine-fifteen  train  for  the  city.  That,  again,  im- 
plied the  disruption  of  the  entire  household  regimen, 
and  Judith  Ascott  had  learned  not  to  try  her  mother's 
patience  too  far.  She  was  the  unpleasant  note  in  an 
otherwise  satisfactory  family.  True,  her  mother  had 
stood  by  her  through  all  the  scandal  and  unpleasantness. 
But  the  changing  of  the  breakfast  hour  was  quite  another 
matter. 

As  she  slipped  into  the  pantry  of  the  big  suburban 
home  and  set  the  coffee  machine  going,  she  turned  over 
in  her  mind  another  reason  for  her  care  not  to  disturb 
the  family  slumber.  She  did  not  know  why  her  attorney 
wished  to  see  her — was  not  even  sure  which  member  of 
the  firm  would  be  awaiting  her,  that  still  March  morning. 
The  long-distance  message  conveyed  the  bare  informa- 
tion that  the  business  was  urgent.  Might  there  be  an- 
other delay  in  the  divorce?  She  had  been  assured  that 
the  decree  would  be  in  her  hands  by  the  end  of  the  week; 
but  gruff  old  Sanderson,  the  senior  partner,  was  not  so 
sure.  Any  reference  to  the  "distasteful  affair"  threw 
her  mother  into  a  nervous  chill.  A  note  on  the  break- 
fast table,  informing  the  family  that  she  had  caught 
the  early  express  for  a  morning  at  the  art  gallery, 
would  suffice  as  well  as  any  other  explanation. 

All  the  way  in,  between  the  snow-decked  New  York 

26 


Judith  Goes  West  27 

fields  and  the  dreary  waste  of  the  Sound,  she  dwelt  mood- 
ily on  the  unpleasant  possibilities  of  the  coming  inter- 
view. But  when  she  emerged  from  the  confusion  of  the 
Grand  Central  station,  already  in  the  turmoil  of  recon- 
struction, she  thought  only  of  the  relative  merits  of  the 
taxicab  and  the  subway.  She  had  schooled  herself,  in 
times  of  stress,  to  take  refuge  in  irrelevant  trifles.  She 
had  learned,  too,  that  the  more  she  worried  before  the 
ordeal  the  less  occasion  she  found  for  worry  when  the 
actual  conditions  confronted  her.  In  view  of  her  sleep- 
less night,  she  would  probably  find  roses  and  Griff  Ram- 
say instead  of  thorns  and  Donald  Sanderson. 

II 

The  attorney  had  thought  it  all  out,  had  decided  just 
how  he  was  going  to  break  the  news.  But  when  he 
found  his  client  confronting  him,  across  the  unaccus- 
tomed barrier  of  his  desk,  his  assurance  forsook  him. 

"Judith,  what  are  you  going  to  do,  now  that  you  are 
free?" 

"What  am  I  going  to  do,  Griff?  That,  as  usual, 
depends  on  mamma.  You  know  I  have  never  planned 
anything — vital — in  my  life.  When  she  lays  too  much 
stress  on  the  'must'  I  do  the  opposite.  She  says  that  I 
am  going  to  sail  with  her  and  the  boys  on  the  fifth  of 
April,  a  month  from  to-day.  Ben  is  going  on  with,  his 
architecture  at  the  Beaux  Arts  and  Jack  is  wild  about 
airplanes.  Paris  has  hideous  memories — but  there's  no 
other  place  for  me." 

"You  are  not  going  to  Paris." 

The  woman  started.     "No?" 

"Not  if  you  have  the  qualities  I  believe  you  have.  Ju- 
dith, may  I  for  once  talk  cold  unpleasant  facts?  You  are 
twenty-seven  years  old  and  the  life  you  have  made  for 


28  Indian  Summer 

yourself  is  a  failure."  Mrs.  Ascott  deprecated  the 
finality  of  the  word,  but  she  let  it  pass.  "Going  to  Paris 
would  only  be  temporizing.  Your  mother's  influence  has 
always  been  bad.  You  and  your  father  are  scarcely  ac- 
quainted. Your  brothers  are  too  young  to  count. 
Laura  and  I  have  been  your  only  intimates,  since  your 
return  to  New  York.  I  need  not  remind  you  of  our 
staunch  friendship  for  you." 

"Griff — tell  me  what  you  have  in  mind.  I  promise  not 
to  cry  out,  if  I  do  squirm  a  little." 

He  told  her  of  Springdale,  the  kindly  old  physician 
who  had  a  theory  that  soft  coal  could  be  transformed,  at 
the  mines,  into  clean  fuel  and  a  whole  retinue  of  valuable 
by-products — of  his  need  for  a  secretary  and  laboratory 
assistant,  to  keep  his  records  and  assist  him  with  experi- 
ments. He  told  her  of  Vine  Cottage,  its  wide  garden 
and  fruit  trees.  "The  house  faces  south.  Get  that  sol- 
idly established  in  your  mind,"  he  admonished.  He 
knew  how  important  it  was  for  Judith  Ascott  to  be  prop- 
erly oriented.  Other  details  of  the  place  he  painted, 
graphic  and  engaging.  She  would  take  with  her  her  old 
nurse,  Nanny.  For  servants  he  had  leased  Jeff  Button 
and  wife,  who  occupied  the  rooms  above  the  garage.  As 
an  afterthought  he  added  that  she  would  spend  four 
mornings  a  week  in  Dr.  Schubert's  laboratory.  Her 
compensation — a  large  block  of  treasury  stock  in  the  cor- 
poration that  would  result  from  the  evolving  of  a  process 
for  the  cleansing  of  soft  coal. 

"Where  is  this  Springdale — this  Utopia?  What  has 
it  to  do  with  Sutton  and  Olive  Hill,  where  the  mines  are 
located?" 

"As  little  as  possible.  You'll  note  that  Springdale 
draws  its  virtuous  white  skirts  away  from  those  filthy 
towns,  with  an  air  so  smug  that  it  would  disgust  you  if 


Judith  Goes  West  29 

it  were  not  so  amusingly  nai've.  It  claims  ten  thou- 
sand inhabitants — when  the  census  taker  isn't  within 
hearing.  There  is  a  denominational  college — co-ed,  I 
believe — with  a  conservatory  of  music  and  a  school  of 
dramatic  art.  The  President  isn't  the  lean  sycophant 
in  a  shabby  Prince  Albert  coat  that  you  might  expect. 
I  met  him — a  singularly  spruce-minded  successor  to  that 
old  Presbyterian  war-horse,  Thomas  Henderson,  who 
built  the  college  out  of  Illinois  dirt." 

"Sounds  interesting,  Griff.     Is  there  any  more?" 

"Yes,  ever  so  much.  The  college  isn't  the  whole  show, 
by  any  means.  At  one  end  of  the  town  is  a  Bible  Insti- 
tute and  at  the  other  an  asylum  for  the  feeble-minded. 
There  is  a  manual  training  school  for  deaf-mutes  and  a 
sanitarium  for  drug  fiends  and  booze  fighters.  On  the 
whole,  quite  an  intellectual  centre.  It  is  under  no  cir- 
cumstances to  be  confused  with  Springfield,  the  capital 
of  the  state.  You  are  sentenced  to  live  there  for  a  year. 
At  the  end  of  your  term  you  may  come  back  to  New 
York — if  you  haven't  found  yourself." 

"Only  last  night  I  was  wishing  that  I  could  run  away 
— somewhere — anywhere — to  a  place  I  had  never  heard 
of.  Do  you  think  I  can  do  the  work?" 

"Oh,  that  part  of  it.  ...  My  only  concern  is  for 
your  mother.  I'll  send  Laura  down  to  Pelham  to  help 
persuade  her." 

Judith  Ascott's  finely  modelled  shoulders  came  up  in  an 
almost  imperceptible  shrug.  "Mamma  will  be  so  re- 
lieved. Don't  trouble  Laura.  I  was  only  going  to 
Paris  because  there  was  no  convenient  pigeonhole  to 
stow  me  away  'till  wanted.'  Mamma,  of  course,  hopes 
that  I  will  marry.  She  wouldn't  want  me  tagging 
around  after  her,  the  rest  of  her  life.  You  know  that 
I  am  done  with  men." 


3O  Indian  Summer 

"By-the-way,"  Ramsay  interrupted,  "I  led  those  people 
to  suppose  your  husband  was  dead.  It's  that  kind  of 
town.  Not  the  old  doctor,  understand.  His  sympathy's 
as  wide  as  humanity.  But  your  next-door  neighbours 
— excellent  people,  though  with  small-town  limita- 
tions. You'll  have  to  depend  on  them  for  such  social 
life  as  your  gregarious  nature  demands.  How  soon  can 
you  be  ready  to  go  west?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  bring  Nanny  from  Vermont.  I 
ought  to  be  on  my  way  in  a  week." 

Ill 

Later  in  the  day,  when  she  found  herself  alone  in  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  Metropolitan,  Mrs.  Ascott  turned 
the  preposterous  proposition  over  in  her  mind.  No 
doubt  the  Ramsays  were  as  tired  of  her  eternal  flopping 
from  one  untenable  situation  to  another  as  her  own 
people  were.  In  Springdale  she  would  be  safely  off  their 
hands  ...  at  least  until  the  sensation  of  her  divorce 
had  subsided.  Would  her  late  husband  marry  the  non- 
chalant co-respondent?  Would  Herbert  Faulkner,  with 
whom  she  had  all  but  eloped,  while  Raoul  Ascott  and  the 
girl  were  in  Egypt  .  .  .  But  she  was  not  interested  in 
Herbert  Faulkner,  and  she  cared  not  a  straw  whether 
Raoul  married  or  pursued  his  butterfly  career,  free  from 
the  stimulating  restrictions  of  domestic  life.  Was  Griff 
afraid  she  would  disturb  the  farcical  relations  of  her  late 
impassioned  admirer  and  the  stern-lipped  woman  who 
bore  his  name  and  made  free  with  his  check-book  to  fur- 
ther her  aberrant  social  ambition?  Was  it  for  this  that 
she  had  been  banished  to  the  coal  fields  of  western  Illi- 
nois— to  save  Maida  Faulkner  the  annoyance  of  a  di- 
vorce and  consequent  loss  of  income?  Whatever  the  act- 
uating motive,  the  thing  was  done.  She  had  acquiesced 
without  a  murmur  of  protest.  This  was  in  keeping  with 


Judith  Goes  West  31 

her  whole  nondescript  life.  Nothing  had  been  worth 
the  effort  of  opposition.  She  had  never  known  the  sting- 
ing contact  of  human  suffering.  Oh,  to  burn  her  fingers 
with  the  flame  of  living!  But  Springdale — a  hide- 
bound college  town,  where  divorce  is  reckoned  among 
the  cardinal  sins. 


VI    The  Trench  Children 


Lavinia  stood  in  the  sun-room,  staring  perplexedly 
across  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of  Vine  Cottage.  She 
was  trying  to  decide  a  ponderous  question.  To  call  on 
the  new  tenant  ...  or  to  wait  the  prescribed  two 
weeks?  David  and  the  children  felt  that  a  neighbourly 
visit  was  already  overdue.  Probably,  Larimore  had 
said  at  breakfast,  Mrs.  Ascott  knew  nothing  of  the  silly 
custom  which  prevailed  in  Springdale,  and  would  think 
her  landlady  either  hostile  or  rude.  For  once  in  her 
life  Lavinia  Trench  was  uncertain.  The  new  tenant  was 
a  woman  of  the  world.  Ominous  distinction.  How 
could  one  gauge  a  neighbour  who  had  crossed  the  ocean 
sixteen  times  and  had  lived  in  every  European  capital 
from  London  to  Constantinople?  She  did  not  wear 
black.  Incomprehensible  for  a  widow.  Likely  as  not, 
she  held  Springdale  unworthy  the  display  of  her  expen- 
sive weeds.  Or  perhaps  she  was  saving  them  for  some 
adequate  occasion.  Just  going  to  Dr.  Schubert's  lab- 
oratory to  work  .  .  .  one's  old  clothes  would  serve  for 
that.  Besides,  there  were  so  many  new  fads  about 
mourning.  It  might  be  that  taupe  was  the  correct  thing. 
She  would  write  and  ask  Sylvia  about  it. 

Sylvia  was  the  one  member  of  the  family  whose  opin- 
ion was  accorded  a  meed  of  respect — now  that  she  had 
gone  to  Detroit  to  live.  It  was  too  bad  that  she  should 
have  moved  to  another  city,  just  when  a  woman  who 
might  have  been  of  service  to  her  had  come  to  Spring- 
dale.  It  was  always  that  way.  Life  offered  the  great 

32 


The  Trench  Children  33 

desideratum — after  the  wish  or  need  for  it  had  gone  by. 
Life,  Lavinia  Trench's  life,  was  an  endless  chain  of  dis- 
appointments. Of  this  there  was  no  shadow  of  doubt. 
David  and  the  children  had  heard  the  statement  reiter- 
ated with  such  consistent  regularity  that  they  failed  now 
to  hear  it  at  all — like  the  noise  of  the  trolley  cars  on 
Sherman  Avenue,  behind  the  Trench  home,  that  at  first 
made  such  a  deafening  clatter. 

"You  seem  to  get  everything  you  ask  for,"  her  second 
son,  Robert,  had  once  reminded  her.  "That's  more 
than  you  can  say  for  the  rest  of  us."  Whereat  she  reeled 
off  such  a  catalogue  of  woes  that  even  Bob  was  silenced. 

II 

There  was  something  abnormal  about  the  Trench  chil- 
dren. Nothing  ever  went  right  with  them.  Sylvia  was 
the  college  beauty,  an  exact  replica  of  her  mother,  and 
she  had  been  forced  in  sheer  desperation  to  marry,  at 
twenty-four,  the  baldheaded  professor  of  chemistry  and 
physics,  whom  half  the  girls  in  town  had  refused.  Lari- 
more  was  a  successful  architect,  had  taken  honours  at 
Cornell ;  but  he  detested  girls  and  boys.  Had  his  nose  in 
a  book  most  of  the  time.  He  might  have  done  things  for 
his  sister,  if  he  had  not  been  so  steeped  in  his  own  mor- 
bid fancies.  Bob  would  have  brought  eligible  young 
men  to  the  house,  if  he  had  been  the  next  one  in  age  to 
Sylvia.  Mrs.  Trench  shuddered  when  she  thought  about 
Bob.  It  was  the  culminating  tragedy  of  her  badly  or- 
dered life. 

A  good  many  things  made  her  shudder  .  .  .  horrible 
patches  of  the  past,  that  had  been  lived  through,  some- 
how. There  were  the  first  few  years  of  her  married  life 
at  Olive  Hill,  when  David  worked  as  a  carpenter,  and 
two  babies  invaded  the  three-room  cottage  before  her 


34  Indian  Summer 

second  anniversary.  She  had  not  considered  the  pos- 
sibility of  children  when,  after  an  engagement  lasting  less 
than  a  month,  she  and  David  had  been  married.  A 
little  daughter — three  weeks  older  than  Ellen's  first 
child !  Lavinia  made  it  an  occasion  for  rejoicing.  Sent 
dainty  announcements  to  Bromfield,  tied  with  blue  rib- 
bon. But  wjien,  after  fourteen  months,  a  boy  came,  she 
began  to  question  the  leap  she  had  made,  that  tempes- 
tuous October  day. 

The  boy  was  called  Larimore,  in  protest  against  the 
unmistakable  lineaments  of  the  Trenches  that  revealed 
themselves  in  his  pathetic  baby  face.  He  was  an 
anaemic  child,  given  to  wailing  softly  when  in  pain — a 
sharp  contrast  to  Sylvia's  insistent  screams.  As  he  grew 
into  boyhood  he  was  quiet  and  studious,  as  David  had 
been.  Seldom  gave  his  mother  cause  for  anxiety,  glutted 
her  maternal  pride  with  his  achievements  at  school,  and 
yet  she  never  quite  overcame  the  feeling  that  he  was  an 
interloper  in  her  family.  There  were  three  years  of  im- 
munity, and  then  came  Robert,  the  child  whom  everybody 
else  regarded  as  a  stray.  But  Lavinia  saw  in  his  thick 
black  hair  and  virile  body  the  materialization  of  her  con- 
tempt for  David's  softness,  as  it  had  perpetuated  itself 
in  her  first  son. 

There  was  nothing  about  Bob  that  was  soft  but  his 
skin.  And  that  was  another  Trench  anomaly.  Between 
Lary's  curling  blond  locks  and  Bob's  peach  bloom  com- 
plexion, Sylvia  had  a  desperate  time  of  it,  before  the 
period  of  adolescence  when  her  own  sallow  cheeks  began 
to  clear.  Those  were  the  dim  prehistoric  days  when, 
in  Springdale,  rouge  and  lip  sticks  carried  all  the  sinister 
implication  which  had  attached,  in  the  Bromfield  of  La- 
vinia's  day,  to  the  suggested  idea  that  a  "nice"  girl 
wanted  to  marry.  There  was  implicit  in  each  the  stigma 


The  Trench  Children  35 

of  the  wanton,  and  Lavinia  had  taught  her  children  that, 
before  all  else,  they  must  be  respectable.  Her  own  pow- 
der box  was  closely  guarded,  its  existence  denied  with 
oaths  that  would  have  condemned  a  less  righteous  soul 
to  perdition. 

After  David  removed  to  Springdale,  as  junior  mem- 
ber of  the  firm  that  had  the  contract  for  two  new  build- 
ings on  the  college  campus,  and  Vine  Cottage  had  been 
erected  beyond  the  residence  district  of  the  town,  three 
other  babies  arrived — at  perfectly  decent  intervals. 
They  were  all  girls.  Isabel,  like  Lary,  was  given  an 
unequivocal  Larimore  name,  because  she  was  so  exactly 
like  her  father.  She  was  four  years  younger  than  Bob, 
and  the  death  of  these  two  made  a  strange  break  in  the 
family  continuity.  Mrs.  Ascott  heard  about  the  Trench 
children  in  a  manner  at  once  vivid  and  enlightening. 

Ill 

It  was  the  ninth  day  of  her  tenancy  at  Vine  Cottage, 
and  she  and  Dr.  Schubert  were  already  old  friends. 
With  the  exception  of  a  reference  to  Eileen,  whom  the 
quality  rather  than  the  content  of  his  allusion  marked  as 
his  favourite,  he  had  studiously  avoided  any  comment  on 
the  Trenches  that  would  serve  to  divert  the  free  flow  of 
her  own  sensitive  perception.  Larimore  and  Sydney 
Schubert  were  of  about  the  same  age — had  been  intimate 
friends  from  boyhood.  Syd's  affection  for  Lary,  at  one 
period  of  his  youth,  had  overflowed  and  engulfed  Sylvia. 
But  Mrs.  Trench  had  set  her  face  sternly  against  any 
such  alliance.  ."The  obstacle  seems  to  have  been  that  in- 
tangible thing,  a  discrepancy  in  age — on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  ledger,"  the  physician  explained.  "There  is  one 
woman,"  he  stressed  the  first  word  extravagantly,  his  eyes 
twinkling,  "who  has  the  whole  scheme  of  life  crystallized. 


36  Indian  Summer 

With  most  of  us,  certain  problems  remain  fluid.  Mrs. 
Trench  knows.  The  eternal  verities  don't  admit  of  ar- 
gument. My  boy  was  only  a  medical  student  when  he 
went  mooning  after  Sylvia,  but  his  prospects  were  good. 
If  he  had  been  born  the  day  before — instead  of  lagging 
a  stupid  sixteen  months  after  the  girl — it  would  have 
been  all  right  for  her  to  wait  ten  years  for  him.  As  it 
was,  he  simply  wouldn't  do.  Mrs.  Trench  objected  to 
Walter  Marksley  on  entirely  different  grounds.  Mrs. 
Trench  is  strong  for  the  moral  code,  and  Walter  kept 
a  fairly  luxuriant  crop  of  wild  oats  in  his  front  yard.  .  .  . 
But  my  dear,  my  dear,  I'm  developing  the  garrulity  that 
is  a  sure  harbinger  of  old  age.  Don't  let  a  word  I've 
been  saying  serve  to  bias  you  in  your  estimate  of  your 
landlady.  •  I  assure  you,  she's  a  trump." 

IV 

Judith  reflected,  on  the  way  home  that  morning,  that 
if  she  wanted  to  get  on  with  Mrs.  Trench,  she  must 
guard  her  own  questionable  past  with  double  zeal.  It 
came  to  her,  with  a  curious  feeling  of  separation,  that 
she  might  care  what  Mrs.  Trench  thought.  The  concept 
was  a  new  one,  and  she  inspected  it  with  interest.  But 
then  .  .  .  she  had  been  so  desperately  lonely,  so  remote 
from  everything  she  had  known  in  the  past.  And  she 
was,  as  Griff  Ramsay  suggested,  a  gregarious  animal — 
recognizing  only  in  its  absence  her  need  of  the  herd. 
For  the  sake  of  Griff  and  Laura  she  would  endure  her  ex- 
ile to  the  end,  and  she  was,  it  seemed,  dependent  on  the 
morally  austere  woman  in  the  great  Colonial  house  for 
such  human  contact  as  Springdale  might  offer — human 
contact  which  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  craved  with 
poignant  longing. 

Nanny  met  her  at  the  door,  her  face  red  with  laugh- 


The  Trench  Children  37 

ter,  her  ample  sides  shaking.  There  had  been  a  gravel 
fight  between  Jeff  Button  and  one  of  the  Trench  children. 
It  appeared  to  be  one  of  the  regular  institutions  of  Vine 
Cottage. 

"You  must  hurry  with  your  luncheon,  Miss  Judith,  so 
as  not  to  miss  the  next  round.  The  little  girl  was  fu- 
rious. She  said  Button  muffed  his  play,  and  that  was 
against  the  rules.  She's  coming  back  to  settle  with  him." 

Nanny  had  prepared  an  unusually  tempting  repast,  in 
the  tiny  breakfast  room  that  looked  out,  with  many  win- 
dows, on  the  stretch  of  lawn  that  separated  the  two 
houses,  on  the  little  wicket  gate  in  the  low  stone  wall,  and 
the  ample  kitchen  garden  beyond  the  wall,  brown  and 
scarred  with  the  first  spring  spading.  The  lonely  woman 
viewed,  with  chill  apprehension,  the  imposing  fagade 
of  the  house,  the  crisp  white  curtains  that  served,  with 
their  thin  opacity,  to  conceal  all  the  activity  of  the 
Trench  home  life.  A  sugar-coated  sphinx,  that  house, 
guarding  its  secret  soul  with  a  subtle  reticence  that  belied 
its  seeming  candour.  Larimore  Trench  had  drawn  the 
plans  for  the  new  home.  Was  he  that  sort  of  man — or 
was  this  another  expression  of  the  ubiquitous  Lavinia, 
whom  Button  had  characterized  as  "running  the  hull 
ranch"? 

There  was  a  commotion  in  the  hall  that  led  from  the 
kitchen  to  the  breakfast  room,  and  Nanny  opened  the 
door.  She  was  plainly  perplexed.  Miss  Judith  was 
still  a  child  to  her,  but  she  was  too  instinctively  a  servant 
to  venture  upon  the  prerogative  of  her  mistress. 

"You  let  me  by,"  a  shrill  voice  piped.  "I'm  going  to 
tell  her,  myself." 

The  housekeeper  yielded  to  a  vicious  pinch  in  the 
rotund  cushion  of  her  thigh,  and  a  small  parcel  of  hu- 
manity slid  adroitly  into  Mrs.  Ascott's  field  of  vision. 


38  Indian  Summer 

Her  head  was  set  defiantly  on  one  side,  but  the  dark 
eyes  were  inscrutable.  A  moment  only  she  faltered, 
tucking  in  her  long  under  lip  and  shifting  her  slight  bulk 
from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"I  broke  a  window  in  your  garage.  It  was  Jeff's  fault. 
He  had  no  business  ducking.  How  did  he  know  I  had 
a  rock  in  that  handful  of  gravel?  Just  gravel  wouldn't 
have  broken  the  window.  I'm  willing  to  shoulder  the 
blame,  and  pay  for  the  glass  out  of  my  allowance — if 
you'll  make  Jeff  put  it  in.  I  can  swipe  that  much  putty 
from  my  papa's  shop.  And — and  don't  let  Jeff  Button 
snitch  on  me — to  Lary." 

She  finished  with  an  excited  gasp,  and  stood  awaiting 
the  inevitable. 

"Come  here,  little  girl.  Don't  mind  about  the  pane. 
Are  you  Eileen  Trench?" 

"Me?  Mercy,  no!"  Astonishment  dissolved  into  mirth, 
mirth  that  savoured  of  derision.  The  next  instant  the 
laugh  died  and  the  high  forehead  was  puckered  in  a 
frown  of  swift  displeasure.  She  came  a  step  nearer,  her 
thin  brown  hand  plucking  at  her  skirt.  "I  shouldn't 
have  laughed  that  way,  as  if  you'd  said  something  silly. 
It  goes  hard  with  me  to  say  I'm  sorry — because — usually 
I'm  not.  I  hate  lying,  just  to  be  polite.  Eileen'll  take 
a  lickin'  any  day,  before  she'll  say  she's  sorry.  But  Syl- 
via says  it's  better  to  apologize  and  be  done  with  it.  And 
I  guess  it  does  save  time." 

The  ideas  appeared  chaotic,  as  if  the  child  were  in  the 
throes  of  a  mighty  change  in  ethical  standards.  Judith 
looked  at  her,  a  whimsical  fancy  taking  possession  of 
her  mind  that  she  was  watching  some  fantastic  mime — 
that  this  was  no  flesh-and-blood  child,  but  an  owl  mas- 
querading in  wren's  attire. 


The  Trench  Children  39 

"My  dear  old  doctor  mentioned  Sylvia  and  Lary  and 
Eileen.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  your  name?" 

"Theodora." 

"Theodora— the  gift  of  God." 

"Yes,  and  it  was  a  rummy  gift.  Jeff  Dutton  says  the 
Lord  hung  a  lemon  on  my  mother's  Christmas  tree.  I 
was  supposed  to  come  a  boy — there'd  been  too  many  girls 
already — and  they  were  going  to  name  me  after  my  uncle 
Theodore.  Jeff  thinks  I  cried  so  much  because  I  was 
disappointed  at  being  just  a  girl.  I  guess  I  cried,  all 
right.  My  brother,  Bob,  named  me  'Schubert's  Sere- 
nade' because  he  and  Lary  had  me  'neath  their  casement 
every  night  till  two  o'clock.  Mamma's  room  was  where 
your  library  is  now.  I  like  this  house  lots  better  than 
ours." 

"Do  you  remember  this  one?  I  thought  the  new 
house  was  built  five  years  ago." 

Theodora  turned  questioning  eyes  upon  her.  Then, 
in  a  flash,  she  understood. 

"Dear  me,  you  have  an  idea  I'm  about  six  years  old. 
Strangers  always  do.  I  can't  help  it  that  I  never  grow 
any  bigger.  I  was  twelve  last  Christmas,  and  I'm  first 
year  Prep.  It's  horrid  to  be  so  little.  People  never 
have  any  respect  for  you.  Eileen's  tall  as  a  broom — but 
nobody  has  much  respect  for  her,  either." 

"Tell  me  about  Eileen.  Dr.  Schubert  is  fond  of  her, 
I  believe." 

"Yes,  he  sees  good  in  her.  He's  about  the  only  one 
who  does.  She  was  sixteen  last  Sunday,  and  she's  third 
year  Prep.  Goes  into  college  next  fall,  if  she  don't  flunk 
again.  She's  getting  too  big  for  mamma's  slipper,  and 
I  don't  know  what  is  going  to  become  of  her.  She's  been 
ugly  as  sin,  ever  since  mamma  heard  a  Chautauqua  lee- 


40  Indian  Summer 

turer  say  you  had  to  go  in  for  technique.  You  know, 
Eileen  plays  the  violin.  And  when  mamma  shuts  her  up 
and  makes  her  practice — she  gets  even  by  making  her 
fiddle  swear.  It  says  'hell'  and  'damn'  and  some  worse 
ones,  just  as  plain.  And  when  she's  mad,  her  eyes  get 
as  yellow  as  cat's  eyes.  You  never  saw  yellow  eyes,  did 
you?" 

"My  own  look  that  way,  at  times — when  I'm  ill  or 
out  of  sorts." 

"But  they're  the  loveliest — like  gray  violets!"  She 
looked  deep  into  Mrs.  Ascott's  eyes,  and  her  own  kindled 
with  admiration.  "Dr.  Schubert  told  us  yours  were  like 
Lary's.  But  they  aren't,  a  bit.  His  are  light  brown. 
That  barely  saves  him  from  being  aTrench." 

Manifestly  Lavinia  had  impressed  on  her  family  the 
advantage  of  looking  like  the  Larimores.  And  yet, 
Judith  thought  she  had  never  seen  a  finer  looking  man 
than  David  Trench — not  so  well  groomed  as  his  son,  and 
with  the  gait  of  a  man  perennially  tired,  but  with  a  face 
that  Fra  Angelico  would  have  loved  to  paint. 

V 

When  the  elfin  child  had  gone,  in  response  to  the  ring- 
ing of  a  great  bell  on  the  distant  campus,  Mrs.  Ascott  sat 
a  long  while  in  smiling  silence.  Not  in  years  had  she 
been  so  entertained.  Bit  by  bit  she  added  the  child's 
revelations  to  the  broken  comments  of  her  garrulous 
gardener.  The  Duttons  had  been  neighbours  of  the 
Trenches  in  Olive  Hill,  when  Jeff  and  Dave  were  fellow 
workmen,  and  before  Jeff's  baleful  visit  to  the  "Jag  Insti- 
toot"  that  robbed  him  of  his  prowess  as  a  brick  mason, 
along  with  the  appetite  for  undiluted  whiskey.  Mrs. 
Dutton  "wasn't  very  friendly"  because  her  fortunes  had 
declined  until  she  was  compelled  to  serve  as  laundress 


The  Trench  Children  41 

and  house-maid  to  Mrs.  Trench's  tenants.  But  there 
was  a  time  when  she  and  her  husband  were  glad  of  a 
refuge  in  the  rooms  above  the  garage.  This  small  brick 
structure,  it  transpired,  had  been  David's  work  shop, 
and  here  Lary  had  made  his  first  architectural  drawings. 

Theodora's  prattle  fairly  bristled  with  Lary.  What- 
ever his  mother  might  think  of  him,  in  his  little  sister's 
eyes  he  was  the  one  flawless  being.  It  was  he  who  had 
supervised  the  furnishing  of  Vine  Cottage,  for  a  certain 
Professor  Ferguson,  a  testy  little  Scot  in  charge  of  the 
department  of  biology  at  the  college.  And  Lary  and  his 
mother  had  almost  broken  heads  over  some  of  the  details. 

Everything  about  the  house  was  exquisite.  Judith 
thought  she  knew  what  Lary  would  be  like — the  man 
who  could  limit  himself  to  a  single  dull  blue  and  yellow 
vase  for  the  library  mantel.  The  external  appearance 
of  the  cottage  had  promised  fustian  .  .  .  the  fish-scale 
ornament  above  the  bay-window,  the  elaborate  carvings 
between  the  veranda  pillars,  the  somewhat  fussy  pergola 
that  covered  the  gravel  walk  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
garage. 

Bare  vines  were  everywhere,  swelling  with  sap  and 
viridescent  with  eager  buds  that  strove  with  their  armour 
of  winter  scales,  although  it  was  not  yet  the  end  of 
March.  Beds  of  narcissus  and  tulips  gave  promise  of 
early  bloom,  and  already  the  yellow  and  white  crocus 
blossoms  were  starring  the  withered  bluegrass  of  the 
front  lawns.  There  was  an  unwritten  law  that  the  lattice 
which  screened  the  vegetable  garden  must  never  carry 
anything  but  cypress  and  Japanese  morning  glories,  and 
that  potatoes  must  be  planted  east  of  the  pergola.  There 
were  other  unwritten  "musts"  that  came  to  light,  day  by 
day,  all  of  them  having  to  do  with  the  garden,  over  which 
apparently  Mrs.  Trench  had  retained  control. 


42  Indian  Summer 

"But,  Lordee,  you  don't  have  to  pay  no  attention  to 
her,"  Button  sniffed,  when  a  rather  arbitrary  ruling  was 
undergoing  vicarious  transmission.  "Treat  her  like  Fer- 
guson did,  the  fust  time  she  butted  in.  It's  your  house." 

Between  Button  and  Theodora,  it  would  not  be  long 
until  all  the  Trench  skeletons  had  been  dragged  from 
their  closets  and  set  dancing  in  hilarious  abandon,  for  the 
amusement  of  the  new  tenant.  They  were  not  real 
people,  the  Buttons  and  the  Trenches,  with  their  unfam- 
iliar life-experience.  She  had  never  envisaged  anyone 
like  them.  It  was  all  a  part  of  the  dream  she  had  cher- 
ished— a  place  she  had  never  heard  of,  where  she  could 
lose  herself  .  .  .  and  forget.  .  .  . 


VII    Lavinia  Pays  a  Call 


In  the  pigeonholes  of  her  memory,  Mrs.  Ascott 
had  stowed  a  collection  of  unanswered  questions,  neatly 
tabulated  and  reserved  for  possible  solution.  Why  had 
her  marriage  with  Raoul  been  the  inevitable  failure  she 
knew  it  must  be,  almost  from  the  beginning?  Would  they 
have  found  each  other  if  there  had  been  children? 
Would  her  own  life  have  been  more  satisfactory,  had  her 
mother  married  for  love  and  not  for  social  position? 
And  now  she  added  another,  trivial  as  compared  with 
these,  yet  quite  as  elusive:  Would  Mrs.  Trench  have 
waited  the  prescribed  two  weeks  for  a  first  call  on  a  new 
neighbour,  had  her  small  daughter  failed  to  report  the 
broken  window — and  other  things  ? 

Whatever  the  answer,  the  stubborn  fact  remained  that 
Mrs.  David  Trench  did  call,  on  Friday  afternoon.  She 
left  a  correctly  engraved  card  on  the  vestibule  table,  and 
sat  erect  on  the  edge  of  her  chair.  She  wore  an  austere 
tailored  suit,  patent  leather  boots  that  called  attention 
to  the  trim  shape  of  her  feet,  and  a  flesh-tinted  veil  of 
fine  silk  net  with  flossy  black  dots.  In  the  full  light  of 
the  south  window,  she  might  have  passed  for  thirty- 
six.  Barring  a  conspicuous  hardness  of  the  mouth,  her 
features  were  excellent.  The  hair  that  lay  in  palpably 
artificial  curls  along  the  line  of  her  velvet  hat  was  as  black 
as  it  is  possible  for  Caucasian  hair  to  be,  and  the  eyes 
were  coldly  piercing — as  if  appraisal  were  their  chief 

43 


44  Indian  Summer 

function.  But  her  speech.  .  .  .  Cloying  sweetness 
trickled  through  her  words,  as  she  assured  her  tenant 
that  they  were  destined  to  be  friends.  She  would  come 
and  care  for  Mrs.  Ascott  if  she  should  fall  ill — so  far 
from  home  and  mother.  She  was  a  famous  nurse.  Dr. 
Schubert  would  bear  her  witness.  Her  heart  ached  as 
she  thought  how  desolate  must  be  the  life  of  a  young 
widow. 

"Yet,"  she  added,  "it  is  an  enviable'  state,  after  ail- 
when  one  has  passed  the  first  shock  of  grief.  Like 
everything  in  life,  it  has  its  compensations.  You  don't 
have  to  bother  with  a  man,  and  there  is  no  danger  of 
your  being  an  old  maid."  She  pronounced  the  last  words 
as  if  she  were  referring  to  the  plague  or  small-pox.  "The 
West  must  look  strange  to  you,"  she  hurried  on,  "a  little 
town,  too,  after  spending  all  your  life  in  New  York  and 
the  great  cities  of  Europe." 

"I  have  spent  very  little  time  in  New  York,"  her  ten- 
ant corrected.  "When  I  was  married  I  went  to  Phila- 
delphia to  live — such  time  as  we  were  not  travelling. 
And  I  was  scarcely  away  from  Rochester  until  I  was 
fifteen." 

"Rochester!  You  don't  tell  me!  We  went  to  Roches- 
ter for  shopping  and  the  theatre,  as  people  in  Springdale 
go  to  St.  Louis.  What  a  little  world  it  is,  after  all. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  town  called  Bromfield?" 

Judith  searched  her  memory.  At  last  she  had  it. 
She  had  driven  to  that  village  more  than  once  with  her 
grandfather,  Dr.  Holden.  She  recalled  one  visit,  when 
the  sleigh  was  insecurely  anchored  in  front  of  a  house  on 
Main  Street,  while  she  curled  up  for  a  nap  in  the  great 
fur  robes  on  the  seat.  The  horse,  arriving  at  the  mental 
state  which  demanded  dinner,  before  the  physician  was 


Lavinia  Pays  a  Call  45 

ready  to  leave  the  house,  had  untied  the  hitching  strap 
and  cantered  unconcernedly  to  the  livery  stable  where  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  being  fed. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  were  the  little  girl  in  the 
sleigh!"  Mrs.  Trench's  eyes  were  scintillating  with  aston- 
ished interest.  "I'll  show  you  the  account  of  it — in  the 
Bromfield  Sentinel.  I  have  a  complete  file  of  the  little 
home  paper.  And  it  will  surprise  you  to  know  that  the 
man  your  grandfather  was  calling  on  was  Robert  Lari- 
more,  my  father.  He  died  of  brain  hemorrhage,  that 
same  night.  All  the  Larimores  go  that  way — suddenly. 
Dr.  Holden  was  called,  when  my  father's  mother  died, 
but  it  was  all  over  before  the  telegram  reached  him. 
And  your  grandmother  .  .  .  she  must  have  been  the 
Mrs.  Holden  who  did  so  much  work  among  the  poor." 

"Yes,  my  parents  left  Rochester  to  escape  from  her 
pets.  That,  of  course,  is  only  a  family  joke.  My 
father  spent  a  good  many  years  in  South  America,  and  I 
was  left  with  my  grandparents.  One  of  my  brothers 
was  born  in  Bolivia  and  the  other  in  the  Argentine.  I 
didn't  see  them  until  they  were  six  and  ten  years  old." 

Mrs.  Trench  was  not  listening.  Should  she.  .  .  or 
should  she  not?  In  the  end,  she  did.  "Mrs.  Ascott,  I 
know  it  sounds  like  a  foolish  question — a  city  the  size  of 
Rochester — but  you  said  a  moment  ago  that  as  a  child 
you  knew  everybody.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  family 
named  Fournier?" 

"The  people  who  kept  the  delicatessen,  around  the 
corner  from  my  grandfather's  private  sanitarium?  Yes, 
I  knew  them  well." 

"Was  there  a  daughter — Lettie  or  Arietta — some 
such  name?  She'd  be  a  woman  of  about  forty-five  by 
this  time,  I  should  think." 


46  Indian  Summer 

"No,  she  was  the  niece,  a  wild,  highstrung  girl  who 
gave  them  a  good  deal  of  trouble.  She  ran  away  and 
was  married,  at  sixteen — some  worthless  fellow  from  up- 
state, who  afterward  tried  to  get  out  of  it." 

"Worthless?"     Mrs.  Trench  bristled  unaccountably. 

"That  was  the  way  Lettie's  people  regarded  him. 
Their  little  boy  and  I  played  together,  as  children.  My 
grandmother  took  a  lively  interest  in  Lettie,  as  she  did 
in  all  wayward  girjs  who  found  no  sympathy  at  home. 
I  remember  she  devoted  a  good  deal  of  her  time  to  the 
patching  up  of  quarrels  between  Lettie  and  her  husband 
— and  keeping  peace  in  the  family,  when  he  was  in  Roch- 
ester with  them." 

"Was  there  anything — peculiar — about  their  mar- 
riage?" 

"Lettie  was  romantic.  I  believe  that  was  all.  It 
happened  before  I  was  born;  but  I  remember  that  there 
was  always  talk.  Grandma  Holden  compelled  her  to 
confess  her  marriage,  to  save  her  good  name.  And  the 
foolish  part  of  it  was  that  she  and  the  youth  were  mar- 
ried under  assumed  names — " 

"The  boy — how  old  is  he?" 

"By  a  very  amusing  coincidence,  I  happen  to  know 
that,  too.  I  couldn't  tell  you  the  ages  of  my  brothers, 
with  any  degree  of  certainty.  But  Fournier  Stone  and  I 
were  born  the  same  night,  in  adjoining  rooms  of  Dr. 
Holden's  sanitarium.  He  arrived  early  in  the  evening, 
and  I  a  little  before  dawn.  By  that  much  I  escaped  the 
'April  Fool'  that  was  so  offensive  to  him.  I  shall  be 
twenty-seven  next  Friday." 

Mrs.  Trench  made  swift  mental  calculation,  and  her 
stiffly  pursed  lips  uttered  one  inexplicable  sentence : 

"Thank  God,  my  people  have  always  been  respect- 
able." 


Lavinia  Pays  a  Call  47 

II 

Lavinia  went  home,  her  whole  being  in  turmoil.  She 
had  not  seen  Bromfield  since  the  day  when  she  and  David 
packed  their  scant  belongings  and  turned  to  seek  oblivion 
or  happiness  in  Olive  Hill.  With  the  exception  of  the 
Sentinel  and  her  sister-in-law's  verbose  letters,  she  knew 
little  of  the  course  of  events  in  that  quiet  back-water  that 
had  environed  her  stagnant  girlhood.  And  Ellen  left 
large  gaps  in  the  village  news,  gaps  that  could  be  filled, 
inadequately,  by  inference  or  imagination.  That  Calvin 
had  a  child,  this  much  she  knew.  That  he  had  spent 
most  of  his  time  in  Rochester,  prior  to  his  father's  long 
illness  and  death,  this,  too,  had  been  conveyed  to  her  by  a 
random  personal  notice  now  and  then.  But  that  he  and 
Lettie  had  gotten  on  badly — had  quarreled.  .  .  .  Cruel 
joy  burned  in  her  eyes.  They  had  had  recourse  to  the 
neighbours,  to  smooth  out  their  family  affairs.  What- 
ever unpleasantness  she  had  had,  within  the  four  walls  of 
her  own  home,  none  of  the  neighbours  had  been  permitted 
to  suspect  that  her  life  was  not  all  she  wished  it  to  be. 
The  neighbours.  What  kind  of  woman  was  Mrs.  Stone, 
that  she  would.  .  .  .  But  Lavinia  knew,  at  last,  what 
kind  of  woman  Mrs.  Stone  was.  She  reflected  that 
Lettie's  marriage  certificate  probably  had  not  been 
framed  in  gold,  as  hers  was,  and  conspicuously  displayed 
on  the  wall  of  her  bedroom.  The  past  ten  years,  the 
Stones  had  prospered,  and  Calvin  had  succeeded  his 
father  as  president  of  the  bank.  Ellen  and  Lettie  were 
on  calling  terms.  She  would  write  Ellen.  .  .  . 

In  memory  she  went  back  to  the  days  when  Vine  Cot- 
tage was  new,  when  to  her  fell  the  task  of  choosing  a  line 
of  social  progress  in  the  clique-ridden  town  of  Spring- 
dale.  She  had  three  small  children,  ample  excuse  for  a 


48  Indian  Summer 

little  dalliance.  And  the  cottage,  with  two  hundred 
feet  of  ground  to  be  transformed  into  a  marvellous  gar- 
den, was  a  little  way  out — a  double  reason  for  delay, 
when  David  urged  her  to  return  the  calls  of  the  Eastern 
Star  ladies,  who  had  been  most  gracious.  "I  don't  want 
to  make  any  mistake,"  she  told  him.  "If  you  once  get  in 
with  the  wrong  set.  .  .  .  '  David  didn't  know  what 
she  meant. 

Ill 

Society  in  Springdale,  such  society  as  counted  for  any- 
thing, was  divided  by  a  clearly  marked  line  of  cleavage, 
with  Mrs.  Henry  Marksley  dominating  one  stratum  and 
Mrs.  Thomas  Henderson  the  other.  The  Hendersons 
were  leaders  in  the  intellectual  life  of  the  community 
and  staunch  pillars  in  the  Presbyterian  church.  Lavinia 
was  glad  that  David  had  been  brought  up  a  Presbyterian 
— or  rather,  that  that  happened  to  be  the  fashionable 
church  in  Springdale.  When  it  came  to  matters  of  prin- 
ciple, it  was  not  easy  to  manipulate  David. 

The  Marksleys  seldom  went  to  church.  On  the  other 
hand,  Mr.  Marksley  stood  ready  with  three  contracts, 
before  David  had  finished  the  work  on  the  campus,  con- 
tracts which  enabled  him  to  reap  the  benefit  of  his  labour, 
instead  of  delivering  two-thirds  of  the  profits  into  the 
hand  of  the  senior  partner.  Mrs.  Marksley  was  partic- 
ularly anxious  to  rally  to  her  standard  the  best  looking 
and  aggressive  young  women  of  the  town.  She  was  try- 
ing to  live  down  the  latest  escapades  of  her  husband  and 
her  eldest  daughter,  Adelaide.  Such  a  woman  as  Mrs. 
David  Trench  would  be  of  service  to  her — and  she  could 
make  the  association  correspondingly  profitable.  But  at 
the  psychological  moment  Mrs.  Marksley  went  into 
temporary  social  exile,  ceasing  all  activity  until  after  the 
birth  of  a  son.  The  hiatus,  together  with  certain 


Lavinia  Pays  a  Call  49 

whispered  stories  concerning  Adelaide,  drove  Lavinia 
to  Mrs.  Henderson  and  the  Browning  Club.  It  was  a 
step  she  never  regretted.  Within  a  year  she  was  able 
to  send  to  the  Bromfield  Sentinel  an  account  of  a  spirited 
business  meeting,  at  which  "young  Mrs.  Trench"  had 
been  elected  secretary,  over  the  heads  of  two  rival  can- 
didates whose  husbands  were  in  the  college  faculty. 
Mrs.  Henderson  was  perpetual  president,  and  member- 
ship in  the  club  gave  just  the  right  intellectual  and  cul- 
tural stamp. 

Years  afterward,  Tom  Henderson  and  Walter  Marks- 
ley  began  an  exciting  race  for  Sylvia's  favour — court- 
ship that  came  to  nothing,  as  all  Sylvia's  courtship  did. 
And  now,  the  boy  whose  advent  had  settled,  once  and 
for  all,  Mrs.  Trench's  social  destiny,  was  playing  around 
with  Eileen,  taking  her  to  and  from  school  in  his  car  and 
ruining  her  digestion  with  parfait  and  divinity.  David 
and  Larimore — to  his  mother  he  was  always  Larimore, 
never  Lary — had  set  their  faces  stubbornly  against  this 
flattering  attachment.  There  had  been  no  scandal  in  the 
Marksley  family  in  recent  years,  and  no  other  objection 
that  a  sensible  person  could  name.  But  how  to  persuade 
them.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Ascott!  To  be  sure.  It  was  provi- 
dential that  she  had  come  to  Springdale  at  such  an  oppor- 
tune time.  She  would  see  things  in  their  true  light — be- 
ing a  woman  of  the  world.  If  only  Larimore  could  be  in- 
duced to  call  on  her.  She  was — m-m-m,  yes,  nineteen 
months  older  than  Larimore.  That  made  it  safe.  A 
young  widow.  .  .  .  But  Larimore  Trench  had  never 
been  interested  in  any  woman.  She  would  trump  up 
some  reason  for  sending  him  over,  that  very  evening. 
She  must  have  Mrs.  Ascott's  assistance.  Eileen's  future 
— her  own  future,  for  reasons  as  yet  but  dimly  appre- 
hended— was  at  stake. 


50  Indian  Summer 

IV 

But  Theodora  spared  her  the  trouble.  Judith  was 
finishing  her  lonely  dinner  when  the  telephone  rang. 
"I'm  bringing  my  brother  over  to  see  you.  I  told  him 
you  wanted  some  changes  made  in  the  living-room."  In 
a  muffled  whisper  she  added:  "Of  course  you  didn't;  but 
I'll  explain.  We'll  be  there  in  a  minute."  Before  she 
could  reply,  the  receiver  had  clicked  into  its  hook,  and 
the  two  were  seen  emerging  from  the  house. 

"Mrs.  Ascott,  this  is  Lary.  It's  the  lamp  shade,  the 
one  on  the  newel  post — you  know — that's  the  colour  of 
ripe  apricots." 

She  darted  from  the  vestibule  into  the  wide  living- 
room,  from  which  a  stairway  ascended  to  the  floor  above, 
and  turned  on  the  light,  although  the  day  was  not  yet 
gone. 

"You  don't  like  it?"  Larimore  Trench  asked.  "This 
colour  scheme,  I  know,  is  a  bit  personal." 

"Why,  child,  when  did  I  say  such  a  thing?  I  don't  re- 
call discussing  the  lamp  shade  with  you." 

"I  didn't  exactly  tell  him  you  said  that  you  objected 
to  it.  I  said  I  thought  you  did.  You  see,  mamma  told 
us  at  dinner  that  you  agreed  with  her  in  everything. 
And  she  has  always  said  that  for  this  room  the  lamp 
shade  must  be  rose  pink." 

"I'm  sorry  to  disagree  with  your  mother,  but  I  should 
not  like  rose  pink." 

"Mrs.  Ascott,"  Lary  began,  his  clear  brown  eyes 
mock-serious,  "I  must  warn  you  that  Miss  Theodora 
Trench  is  a  conscienceless  little  fibber.  It  isn't  her  only 
fault,  but  it  is  her  most  serious  one." 

"Lary!  To  think  of  you — giving  me  a  black  eye, 
right  before  Lady  Judith !  When  I  haven't  had  a  chance 


Lavinia  Pays  a  Call  51 

to  make  good  with  her.     If  mamma  or  Eileen.  .  .  . 
But  you!" 

"I  couldn't  make  either  of  them  any  blacker  than  they 
already  are,  dearie.  And  I  didn't  mean  to  humiliate 
you.  But  you  mustn't  begin  by  fibbing  to  Mrs.  Ascott." 

She  hung  her  head,  crimson  blotches  staining  the  sal- 
low cheeks.  After  a  moment  she  looked  up,  and  the 
angry  fire  had  been  extinguished  by  shining  tears. 

"I  guess  it's  better  this  way.  Now  Lady  Judith 
knows  what  kind  of  a  family  we  are.  You  can't  get  dis- 
appointed in  people  if  you  know  the  worst  of  them 
first." 


It  transpired  that  within  the  Trench  home  the  new 
tenant  had  already  been  established  as  "Lady  Judith,"  a 
name  which  Theodora  afterward  explained,  with  docu- 
mentary and  graphic  evidence  to  substantiate  her  none 
too  credible  word.  A  long  time  ago  Lary  had  given  her 
a  book  of  fairy  tales,  the  heroine  of  which  was  Lady 
Judith  Dinglewood — beloved  of  all  the  bold  knights,  but 
destined  for  the  favour  of  the  king's  son.  Lary  had 
adorned  the  title-page  with  a  miniature  of  the  beautiful 
lady,  and  had  added  a  colophon  showing  her  in  the  robes 
of  a  royal  bride.  Theodora  could  recite  every  word  of 
the  romantic  tale  before  she  was  old  enough  to  read. 
She  had  gone  to  sleep  with  that  book  in  her  arms,  as 
Sylvia  had  insisted  on  taking  her  best  wax  doll  to  bed. 
The  moment  she  espied  the  name,  Judith  Ascott,  on  the 
lease  that  Griffith  Ramsay  had  signed,  she  decided  that 
her  Lady  Judith  had  come  true. 

It  mattered  little  that  the  new  occupant  of  the  name 
bore  not  the  slightest  resemblance  to  the  two  little  water 
colour  drawings.  Lary  could  paint  a  new  Lady  Judith, 


52  Indian  Summer 

now  that  he  knew  what  she  really  looked  like.  It  was 
not  his  fault  that  he  had  made  the  eyes  black.  He  had 
to  do  that,  to  appease  mamma  and  Sylvia — whose  stan- 
dards of  beauty  were  rigidly  fixed.  But  eyes  that  could 
be  blue  or  grey,  or  flecked  with  brown,  as  they  were  this 
evening.  .  .  .  How  much  more  interesting  than  eyes 
that  were  always  the  same  colour !  The  hair,  in  that  new 
picture  which  Lary  must  paint,  would  be  pale  chestnut, 
with  golden  glints  where  the  light  fell  on  it.  And  the 
mouth — the  sweetest  mouth!  She  told  Lary  about  it  as 
they  went  home,  through  the  close  dark  of  a  wonderful 
spring  night.  Had  he  noticed  Mrs.  Ascott's  mouth? 
He  had. 


VIII    Hal  Marksley  Intrudes 

i 


•  i  i 
April  brought  a  break  in  the  stolid  serenity  of  Elm 

Street.  The  big  house  across  from  the  Trench  property 
began  to  manifest  signs  of  awakening  life.  For  almost 
a  year  it  had  stood  vacant,  with  only  a  caretaker  to  guard 
it  against  the  depredations  of  Springdale's  budding 
youth.  Paint  and  pruning  shears  had  scarcely  achieved 
the  miracle  of  external  transformation  when  a  consign- 
ment of  furniture  arrived,  via  the  Oriental  express  and 
San  Francisco.  This  much  Theodora  discovered  as  she 
risked  her  fragile  bones  among  the  packing  cases  in  the 
reception  hall.  She  had  contrived  to  make  out  four 
letters,  N-I-M-S,  in  great  smears  of  glossy  black  ink  on 
several  of  the  boxes.  That  hardly  sounded  like  a  name. 

"Mamma  says  it  will  be  time  enough  to  find  out  about 
them  when  they  move  in,"  she  complained  to  Mrs.  As- 
cott.  "I  heard  her  ask  the  agent  —  and  she  was  mad  as 
hops  when  he  refused  to  tell  her." 

"Delightfully  mysterious,  Theo.  Perhaps  some 
European  monarch  has  grown  tired  of  his  crown,  and  is 
coming  to  live  across  the  street  from  us." 

"Maybe  it's  the  Emperor  of  China.  I  saw  the  loveli- 
est great  red  dragon  —  where  one  of  the  cases  had  broken 
open  and  the  burlap  was  torn  off.  Oh  —  "  in  sudden 
fright,  "don't  let  Lary  know  I  pried." 

She  had  perceived  her  brother's  approach,  by  some 
subtle  sense  that  bound  them.  He  and  Eileen  were 
crossing  the  lawn  with  noiseless  steps  and  Theodora's 

53 


54  Indian  Summer 

back  was  turned.  When  they  reached  the  front  gate, 
Mrs.  Ascott  gave  greeting: 

"What  does  one  do  in  Springdale,  these  glorious  spring 
evenings?" 

"One  goes  to  the  show,  ,if  one  has  an  amiable 
brother."  To  Eileen's  suggestion,  Larimore  added: 
''Won't  you  come  along,  Mrs.  Ascott?  Vaudeville  and 
pictures — not  much  of  an  attraction;  but  it  might  amuse 
you.  My  mother  is  entertaining  the  ladies  of  the  mis- 
sionary society  this  evening,  and  she  doesn't  want  us 
around." 

"Yes,"  Theodora  added,  "and  Mrs.  Stevens  is  coming. 
She  and  Eileen  don't  speak,  since  the  'ossified  episode.' 
You  know,  Lady  Judith,  that's  all  that  saved  you  from 
being  invited  to  join  the  Self  Culture  Club.  Mamma  be- 
longs. She  was  one  of  the  charter  members — reads  the 
magazine,  like  it  was  the  Bible — and  she  meant  it  for  a 
compliment  to  offer  your  name  for  membership.  But 
Mrs.  Stevens  was  so  furious  at  Eileen  that  she  tabled  all 
the  names  mamma  submitted." 

"You  wouldn't  have  gone  in  for  that  rubbish  anyway," 
Eileen  defended  herself.  "Mrs.  Stevens  makes  me 
tired.  She  hasn't  a  thing  in  her  library  but  reference 
works.  And  mamma  holds  her  up  to  Theo  and  me  as  a 
bright  example.  Tells  us  that  we  can't  expect  to  get 
culture  unless  we  look  things  up.  Ina  Stevens  does  that, 
and  she  has  facts  hanging  all  over  her.  She's  as  prissy 
as  her  mother." 

"But  what  was  the  'ossified  episode'?"  Judith  asked, 
recognizing  one  of  Larimore  Trench's  expressions, 
wherewith  Theodora's  speech  was  frequently  adorned. 

"Humph,  I  got  caught  on  the  word,  in  rhetoric  class. 
Thought  it  meant  something  about  kissing,  and  the  whole 
class  hooted  at  me.  Ina  was  at  home,  sick,  that  day, 


Hal  Marksley  Intrudes  55 

and  Theo  and  I  went  over  in  the  evening  to  take  her 
credit  card.  Her  marks  were  loads  better'n  mine, 
and  Mrs.  Stevens  swelled  up  so  about  it  that  I  couldn't 
help  telling  her  that  my  grandfather  was  expected  to 
die,  because  all  his  bones  had  ossified.  And,  Mrs.  As- 
cott,  both  of  them — Ina  and  her  mother — fell  for  it. 
Mrs.  Stevens  said  it  was  a  dreadful  disease,  but  she  had 
known  one  old  lady  who  lived  three  years  in  that  condi- 
tion. I  looked  blank  as  a  grindstone;  but  Theo  had  to 
go  and  snigger.  And  after  we  went  home,  Mrs.  Stevens 
looked  it  up — and  'phoned  mamma  that  I  had  to  apolo- 
gize, or  she  wouldn't  let  Ina  chum  with  me  any  more.  I 
don't  care.  I  like  Kitten  Henderson  best,  any  way." 
She  turned  to  look  anxiously  up  the  street,  as  if  she 
were  more  than  half  expecting  some  one,  while  Judith 
went  into  the  house  to  get  her  hat. 

II 

The  performance  had  been  going  on  for  an  hour  when 
the  four  entered  the  theatre,  groping  their  way  down  the 
dark  aisle  to  a  row  of  unoccupied  seats  at  the  left  side. 
The  stage  was  being  set  for  a  troupe  of  Japanese  tum- 
blers, and  the  interval  was  bridged  by  news  films  and  an 
animated  cartoon.  To  Judith  this  form  of  entertain- 
ment was  new.  Raoul  could  tolerate  nothing  but  the 
sprightliest  comedy.  With  the  Ramsays  and  Herbert 
Faulkner  she  had  tried  to  find  surcease  in  grand  opera 
and  the  symphony.  Once  in  London  she  and  her  mother 
had  taken  refuge  from  the  rain  in  a  cinema  theatre 
where,  on  a  wide  screen,  a  company  of  fat  French  wo- 
men chased  a  terrified  little  man — who  had  loved  not 
wisely  but  too  often — through  the  familiar  streets  of  the 
Latin  Quarter,  overturning  flower  stands  and  vegetable 
carts,  falling  in  scambled  heaps  that  writhed  with  a 


56  Indian  Summer 

brave  showing  of  lingerie,  untangling  themselves  and 
scampering  to  fresh  disaster,  when  they  discovered  that 
the  object  of  their  jealous  rage  had  somehow  slipped  un- 
hurt from  the  mass.  Mrs.  Denslow  was  disgusted. 
Judith  was  only  bored. 

But  this  bit  of  screen  craft  was  different.  On  an  ex- 
panse of  dazzling  white  a  single  black  dot  appeared, 
paused  a  breathless  moment  and  went  tripping  about 
in  a  zigzag  dance,  spilling  smaller  dots  as  it  went. 
These  resolved  themselves  into  figures  that  stalked  about 
with  the  jerky  motion  of  automata.  A  ghostly  hand 
passed  over  the  picture,  and  it  stood  revealed  a  plenum 
of  regularly  arranged  dots.  With  another  wave  of  the 
wraithlike  hand,  the  dots  began  to  move  slowly  to  and 
fro,  advancing  and  retreating  until  they  assumed  the  out- 
lines of  a  great  picture,  "Washington  Crossing  the  Dela- 
ware." Other  pictures  were  produced  by  means  of 
those  same  dots.  But  Mrs.  Ascott,  who  had  never  be- 
fore watched  the  vibrant  changes  of  an  animated  car- 
toon, found  it  necessary  to  close  her  eyes  to  relieve  the 
strain.  And  then  .  .  .  some  one  was  leaning  over  her 
shoulder,  heavy  with  the  odour  of  a  spent  cigar,  and  a 
full,  authoritative  voice  was  saying: 

"Come  on,  Eileen.  The  whole  bunch  is  down  in 
front.  Ina  and  Jimmy  are  there,  and  Kitten  and  Dan." 

"Hal  Marksley,  if  you  can't  come  to  the  house  for 
me — "  the  girl  said  petulantly,  but  she  stepped  to  the 
seat  of  her  chair  and  vaulted  nimbly  over  the  back. 
Theodora,  moved  to  the  vacant  place  beside  her  Lady 
Judith  and  the  play  went  on. 

Ill 

At  the  gate,  Lary  kissed  his  little  sister  and  sent  her 
home,  going  into  the  house  with  Mrs.  Ascott.  There 


Hal  Marksley  Intrudes  57 

was  no  need  of  so  much  as  a  nod  to  assure  him  that  the 
evening  was  not  yet  finished.  She  wanted  to  ask  him 
about  Dr.  Schubert — the  tragedy  that  had  mellowed  and 
sweetened  him.  But  the  revelation  would  come  in  due 
time.  Instead,  she  demanded  to  know  the  significance 
of  Indian  Summer.  Only  that  morning  the  old  physician 
had  remarked — when  she  told  him  of  Button's  warn- 
ing— "We  hop  from  snow  to  sweat,  out  here  in 
Illinois," — that  one  could  endure  the  heat  if  one  kept 
constantly  in  mind  that  after  frost  there  would  be  Indian 
Summer. 

Indian  Summer.  She  had  read  a  sentimental  essay, 
years  ago.  .  .  .  April — the  arrogant,  reckless  abun- 
dance of  Youth.  August — the  passionate  heat  of  Love. 
October — the  killing  frost  of  Sorrow.  And  after  that, 
the  golden  peace  of  Indian  Summer.  In  her  part  of 
the  world  there  was  no  such  division  of  seasons.  Yet 
the  figures  had  attached  themselves  to  the  walls  of  her 
memory  by  tenacious  tentacles.  For  her  there  had  been 
neither  sorrow  nor  peace  .  .  .  just  the  bald  monotony 
of  a  life  that  had  been  regulated  by  the  artificial  stand- 
ards of  her  mother  or  her  husband.  She  was  so  deadly 
tired  of  it  all.  And  her  work  at  the  laboratory  had  not 
proved  absorbing.  It  was  too  easy  .  .  .  the  copying  of 
formulae  and  an  occasional  hand  at  an  experiment  that 
might  be  dangerous.  But  she  knew  that  none  of 
them  would  be  dangerous.  Dr.  Schubert  was  too  cau- 
tious to  permit  her  even  that  zest.  Sydney  Schubert,  the 
son,  who  specialized  in  diseases  of  children,  §he  hardly 
knew.  An  epidemic  of  scarlet  fever  was  raging  in  the 
mining  towns  of  Sutton  and  Olive  Hill,  and  he  was 
away  from  home  most  of  the  time. 

"In  order  to  appreciate  Syd,  you  must  know  the  trag- 
edy of  his  boyhood,"  Lary  began.  "It  was  more  terrible 


58  Indian  Summer 

for  his  parents,  of  course.  But  to  a  sensitive  boy  who 
had  an  instinctive  love  of  beauty — quite  aside  from  his 
natural  devotion  to  his  mother.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Schubert  was 
without  doubt  the  most  beautiful  woman  either  of  us 
had  ever  seen.  Not  the  type  my  mother  admires.  And 
it  may  not  have  been  the  kind  that  would  last.  She  was 
too  fair  and  exquisite." 

"And  she  died,  while  the  bloom  was  still  fresh?" 
Judith  asked. 

"No,  she  lived  eight  years.  We  never  knew  how  the 
thing  happened  ...  a  breeze  that  ruffled  her  clothing 
too  close  to  the  grate,  or  it  may  have  been  that  her  veil 
caught  fire  from  an  exposed  gas  flame.  She  was  dressed 
to  go  out,  and  was  waiting  for  the  doctor  in  the  great 
hall  of  their  house,  when  she  discovered  that  her  clothing 
was  ablaze.  She  wrapped  herself  in  a  carriage  robe  that 
happened  to  be  lying  on  the  settle;  but  she  was  horribly 
burned.  One  side  of  her  face  was  disfigured  beyond 
recognition.  Fortunately  the  eyes  were  saved.  It  was 
after  her  recovery  that  Dr.  Schubert  had  the  pipe  organ 
installed  in  the  hall,  to  occupy  her  time,  for  she  never 
went  out,  and  at  home  she  always  covered  her  scars  with 
a  veil  of  white  chiffon.  Syd  and  Bob  and  I  took  turns 
at  pumping  the  organ  for  her,  before  the  days  of  electric 
motors,  and  she  taught  all  of  us  music.  One  afternoon, 
three  years  ago,  they  found  her  at  the  organ  .  .  .  her 
head  resting  on  the  upper  manual.  They  thought  at  first 
she  was  asleep." 

"I'm  glad  she  went  that  way,"  Judith  said,  her  throat 
tight  with  emotion. 

Lary  might  have  resumed,  but  he  was  arrested  by 
boisterous  laughter,  out  on  the  street.  Eileen  and  her 
friends  were  going  by,  and  young  Marksley  was  saying, 
with  a  good-natured  sneer:  "Cornell — nix  on  Cornell  for 


Hal  Marksley  Intrudes  59 

mine.  The  kid  and  I  have  this  college  business  all  doped 
out.  She's  going  to  cut  this  little  Presbyterian  joint, 
next  fall,  and  we're  both  going  to  Valparaiso  University. 
Greatest  college  on  earth !  Place  where  they  teach  you 
to  dissolve  the  insoluble,  to  transmute  the  immutable  and 
unscrew  the  inscrutable.  I'm  going  to  take  commercial 
law,  and  Eileen  can  go  on  with  her  music.  .  .  ."  The 
voices  died  away,  as  the  group  turned  the  corner  beyond 
Vine  Cottage. 

"I  wish  my  sister  wouldn't — "  Lary  checked  him- 
self, colouring. 

"I  shouldn't  take  it  too  seriously.  Such  school  boy 
and  girl  affairs  seldom  come  to  anything.  Eileen's  a 
stubborn  child.  I  wouldn't  oppose  her  .  .  .  openly." 

IV 

It  proved  a  mistake,  letting  Eileen  go  away  with  Hal 
and  the  others.  At  midnight  she  tried  to  let  herself 
in  noiselessly  at  the  side  door,  found  it  unaccountably 
locked,  and  was  forced  to  ring  the  bell.  There  was  a 
scene  at  the  breakfast  table,  reported  to  Mrs.  Ascott  by 
Theodora,  with  dramatic  touches.  Scenes  were  not  un- 
common, but  this  one  was  different.  It  developed  along 
unexpected  lines.  No  one  had  taken  into  account  the 
possibility  of  Mrs.  Trench  as  a  bulwark  of  defence  for 
Eileen.  But  that  wary  ally  was  not  wont  to  fight  in  the 
open.  She  was  so  accustomed  to  storming  the  postern 
gate,  that  she  was  likely,  to  creep  around  to  the  rear  of 
her  objective,  when  the  front  portal  stood  open,  un- 
defended. This  morning  she  had  for  subterfuge  the 
highly  practical  business  advantage  of  cultivating  Hal 
Marksley's  friendship.  Hal's  father,  as  the  whole  town 
knew,  was  preparing  to  build  a  palatial  mansion  in  the 
parklike  addition  he  had  recently  laid  out,  at  the  western 


60  Indian  Summer 

limit  of  Springdale's  residental  section.  Six  architects 
had  been  invited  to  compete  for  the  plans.  It  was  im- 
portant that  Larimore  Trench  be  the  victor.  This 
would  place  the  contract  for  construction  automatically 
in  David's  hands.  But  David  and  Lary  wanted  to  elim- 
inate themselves  from  the  competition,  and  admonish 
Hal  that  it  would  be  advisable  for  him  to  take  his  affec- 
tion elsewhere.  At  this,  Lavinia  forgot  her  prudence- 
delivered  a  direct  assault  on  her  husband,  which  might 
have  been  but  an  echo  of  the  thing  she  had  been  saying 
to  him  at  regular  intervals  for  twenty-eight  years: 

"Yes,  and  you'd  insult  Hal — spoil  Eileen's  chance,  the 
way  my  father  spoiled  mine — just  because  a  young  man 
has  money  and  knows  how  to  show  a  girl  a  good  time ! 
I  don't  intend  to  go  through  another  such  experience  as 
I  had  with  Sylvia." 

The  reference  to  Sylvia  was  beside  the  mark.  She 
had  not  intended  to  betray  her  eagerness  for  an  early 
marriage  for  her  second  daughter. 


IX    News  From  Bromfield 


Lavinia  was  finding  her  tenant  increasingly  useful — 
the  wicket  gate  an  open  sesame  to  many  of  the  difficult 
problems  for  which  she  had  been  wont  to  search  in  vain 
the  pages  of  the  Self  Culture  Magazine.  A  develop- 
ment watched  by  her  son  with  incredulous  wonder. 
Hitherto  Lavinia  Trench  had  believed  nothing  that  was 
conveyed  to  her  by  word  of  mouth.  "She's  a  pure 
visuel,"  Dr.  Schubert  had  sought  to  explain.  "She  gets 
her  mental  concepts  through  her  eyes."  But  Lary  knew 
that  that  was  not  all  of  it.  His  mother  held  an  enor- 
mous respect  for  the  printed  word.  She  wanted  one  of 
her  sons  to  be  a  writer.  That  would  reflect  real  credit 
on  the  family.  Her  own  inability  to  form  fluid  sentences 
only  increased  her  admiration  for  those  unseen  masters 
whose  thoughts  and  experiences  had  received  the  ac- 
colade of  printer's  ink.  True,  she  had  many  times  ap- 
peared over  her  own  signature,  in  the  clumsily  edited 
columns  of  the  Bromfield  Sentinel — when  there  was  a 
chance  to  weave  into  the  story  some  reference  to  Lari- 
more's  triumphs  at  Cornell,  Sylvia's  social  conquests  or 
Bob's  athletic  achievements.  But  to  get  things  pub- 
lished .  .  .  and  paid  for.  .  .  .  This  last  comment  al- 
ways sent  Lary  flying  from  the  room.  She  would  prob- 
ably not  take  any  stock  in  the  things  he  wrote,  even  if 
she  read  them  in  print.  They  were  so  at  variance  with 
all  her  established  convictions. 

On  a  certain  Thursday  morning  she  made  occasion  to 

61 


62  Indian  Summer 

call  on  Mrs.  Ascott,  the  newly  arrived  copy  of  the  Sen- 
tinel in  her  hand.  Her  dark  sallow  cheeks  showed  hectic 
splotches,  and  her  eyes  flared  and  dimmed  with  the  emo- 
tion she  was  trying  to  conceal.  She  had  not  written  the 
story  on  the  front  page  of  the  Bromfield  paper.  Her 
fancy's  most  ingenious  flight  could  not  have  fabricated 
anything  one  half  so  ...  gratifying.  So  terrible,  she 
amended,  to  her  own  soul.  But  the  real,  the  usually 
submerged  Lavinia,  knew  that  the  former  word  was  the 
right  one. 

"You  remember  the  boy,  Fournier  Stone,  that  you 
used  to  play  with  when  you  were  a  little  girl  in  Roches- 
ter," she  began  tensely.  "Read  that." 

The  story  was  told  with  all  the  crass  vulgarity  and 
offensiveness  of  small  town  journalism.  The  bank  ex- 
aminer had  paid  an  unexpected  visit  to  the  Bromfield 
National  bank — because  of  certain  stories  that  had  been 
circulated  concerning  young  Stone's  extravagance  in 
Rochester  and  Buffalo.  It  was  found  that  a  large  gap  be- 
tween the  bank's  records  and  the  actual  cash  on  hand  had 
been  bridged  by  spurious  paper  that  implied  the  ad- 
ditional crime  of  forgery.  This,  it  transpired,  was  not 
Fournier  Stone's  first  offence.  In  the  past  he  had  fled 
to  his  mother  for  assistance;  but  now  Mrs.  Stone  was 
critically  ill,  and  he  had  not  dared  to  tell  her  of  his 
dilemma. 

"To  think  of  a  mother  shielding  her  son  in  such  ras- 
cality!" to  which  Lavinia  added,  with  snapping  satis- 
faction, "But  what  could  you  expect  of  such  a  mother?" 

The  account  closed  with  the  statement  that  Mrs. 
Stone  had  suffered  a  relapse,  because  of  the  shock  of 
her  son's  arrest,  and  for  several  hours  her  life  was  des- 
paired of.  The  culprit  was  released,  under  heavy  bond, 
and  was  constantly  at  his  mother's  bedside. 


News  from  Bromfield  63 

II 

Saturday  brought  a  letter  from  Ellen  Larimore,  with 
further  details.  Fournier  Stone  had  disappeared — 
walked  out  of  the  house,  in  the  clothes  of  one  of  the 
servants,  right  past  the  secret  service  man  who  was  there 
to  trap  him.  It  was  thought  that  he  had  gone  to  Can- 
ada. His  mother  was  in  a  desperate  condition.  "Of 
course,"  Ellen  added,  "we  don't  know  a  thing  for  cer- 
tain. I  talked  to  Calvin  this  morning,  and  the  poor  man 
is  distracted.  But  most  people  here  think  he  might  have 
set  the  boy  a  better  example.  I  never  forgot  the  day 
you  told  me  it  was  too  risky  to  marry  a  man  who  drank 
and  gambled.  What  if  it  was  Larimore  that  was  a 
fugitive  from  justice!  Aren't  you  thankful  that  you 
married  David  instead  of  Calvin?  I've  had  an  idea  for 
a  long  time  that  you  got  wind  of  the  affair  with  Lettie, 
and  threw  Calvin  over,  in  a  jealous  huff.  Now  I  see  your 
wisdom.  Oh,  I  almost  forgot  to  tell  you  that  when  they 
came  to  look  up  Fournier's  records,  in  Rochester,  it  came 
out  that  he  is  six  months  older  than  we  thought  he  was. 
There  are  a  lot  of  things  about  Calvin  Stone's  marriage 
that  some  of  us  older  people  would  like  to  find  out  about." 
Lavinia  set  her  teeth  hard,  and  a  yellow  pallor  replaced 
the  flush  of  indignant  pleasure  that  had  accompanied  the 
reading  of  the  letter  ...  up  to  this  point.  She  had 
intended  to  show  the  letter  to  David;  but  when  she  came 
to  the  mention  of  her  wisdom  in  the  choice  of  a  hus- 
band, she  wavered.  That  last  sentence  brought  her  to 
an  abrupt  decision.  She  burned  the  letter — and  re- 
peated such  parts  of  it  as  would  fit  in  with  a  half  formed 
plan  in  her  own  mind. 

David  was  profoundly  sorry  for  the  Stones.  Their 
misfortunes  helped  to  ease  the  pain  in  his  own  heart,  a 


64  Indian  Summer 

pain  that  had  never  been  lulled  since  the  black  day  when 
Bob  Trench's  dripping  body  was  taken  from  the  river.  It 
was  his  mother  who  had  urged  him  to  compete  for  one 
more  trophy  at  the  annual  college  field  meet.  To  David  it 
seemed  that  his  wife  cared  more  for  Bob's  ribbons  and 
foolish  little  silver  cups  than  for  all  Lary's  scholarships 
and  medals.  He  had  never  connected  these  spectacular 
mementoes  with  the  boastings  in  the  Bromfield  Sentinel, 
and  their  possible  effect  on  certain  of  the  old  friends, 
whose  children  had  not  distinguished  themselves.  Prov- 
idence, it  now  appeared,  had  been  kind  in  the  untimely 
taking  off  of  his  son.  Such  disgrace  as  Fournier  Stone 
had  brought  upon  his  parents  would  be  harder  to  bear. 
In  David's  limited  vocabulary  respectability  had  no 
place.  But  principle  loomed  large.  It  was  the  thing 
Fournier  Stone  had  done,  not  the  newspaper  account  of 
it,  that  mattered. 


X    Eileen  Seeks  Counsel 


Mrs.  Ascott  went  out  into  the  garden  after  break- 
fast to  watch  the  transfer  of  tomato  plants  from  the 
cold  frames  beside  the  garage  to  the  loamy  bed  that  bor- 
dered the  west  wall.  Button  had  explained  to  her  that 
nothing  would  thrive  against  the  high  board  fence  that 
shut  the  grounds  from  the  street,  at  the  east  side  of  the 
garden — on  account  of  the  afternoon  sun — and  that 
these  tomatoes  would  grow  six  feet  high  and  would  dis- 
port their  fruit  above  the  stone  wall  ...  if  the  suckers 
were  kept  picked  off.  She  wondered  what  suckers  were, 
and  how  the  afternoon  sun  had  acquired  such  a  sinister 
reputation. 

She  had  not  slept,  and  the  April  air  was  cool  and  re- 
freshing. Mamma  and  the  boys  were  safely  installed  in 
a  Paris  apartment.  Papa  had  closed  the  big  house  at 
Pelham,  taking  two  of  the  best  trained  servants  with  him 
to  the  city  establishment  on  Riverside  Drive,  and  was 
happily  engrossed  in  the  Wall  Street  fight  for  further 
millions — secure  from  the  annoyance  of  family  intrusion. 
She  had  several  letters  and  one  cablegram.  How  re- 
mote it  all  seemed,  how  like  the  hazy  memory  of  an- 
other existence !  Two  months  ago  she  was  trying  to 
forget  Raoul,  his  amiable  as  well  as  his  maddeningly  of- 
fensive side.  Now  she  seldom  thought  of  him  at  all. 
His  personality  had  lost  its  definite  line  and  mass.  Even 
his  form  was  growing  nebulous.  She  could  not  remem- 
ber what  it  was  that  he  particularly  disliked  for  break- 
fast .  .  .  and  whether  he  was  growing  alarmingly  stout 

65 


66  Indian  Summer 

or  thin  when  he  went  away  to  Egypt  with  Hilda  Travers. 

It  was  strange  that  she  should  have  forgotten.  Her 
life  with  him  had  been  made  up  of  just  such  things  as 
these.  She  searched  herself  for  an  explanation,  as  the 
gardener  rambled  on,  his  words  scarce  reaching  her  con- 
sciousness. Slowly  the  imponderable  thoughts  assem- 
bled themselves,  fashioning  for  her  a  shadow  picture 
of  her  remote  childhood.  She  was  in  the  old  kitchen  at 
'Rochester  and  her  grandmother  Holden  was  baking 
cookies  for  the  slum  children.  There  on  the  marble 
slab  lay  the  great  mass  of  yellow  dough  that  so  tempted 
her  eager  fingers.  More  than  once  she  had  seized  a 
breathless  opportunity,  while  grandma's  back  was  turned, 
to  thrust  an  index  finger  far  down  into  its  golden  soft- 
ness. And  behold!  The  mass  had  come  together, 
leaving  scarce  a  trace  of  the  deep  impression  she  had 
made. 

Was  she  as  plastic  as  dough,  and  had  her  husband 
gone  from  her  life  without  leaving  an  impression? 
There  must  be  something  more  .  .  .  something  that 
had  not  worked  out  with  precision  in  their  case.  Did 
not  that  same  yielding  substance  take  on  the  fairly  per- 
manent shapes  of  lions  and  camels,  dancing  girls  and 
roosters  with  arching  tails?  Perhaps  Raoul  had  ne- 
glected to  bake  the  dough.  Was  she  still  an  impres- 
sionable girl,  for  all  her  tragic  experience? 

II 

The  wicket  gate  opened  and  Eileen  came  towards  her. 
The  slim  shoulders  drooped  carelessly  and  there  was 
a  sullen  look  about  the  too  voluptuous  mouth.  Mrs.  As- 
cott  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  Eileen's  mouth  was 
like  her  mother's.  All  the  rest  of  her  was,  as  Theo- 
dora put  it,  "pure,  unadulterated  Trench"  .  .  .  except- 


Eileen  Seeks  Counsel  67 

ing,  of  course,  the  eyes,  which  were  amber  or  vicious 
yellow,  according  to  her  mood.  Lary  had  his  father's 
mouth;  but  had  compromised  with  his  mother  on  the 
question  of  eyes.  Lavinia  abhorred  compromises,  albeit 
she  had  learned  to  accept  them  as  if  they  had  beent)f  her 
own  choosing. 

The  girl  stood  in  rebellious  indecision,  a  few  feet  from 
the  tomato  bed.  Then,  as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  do  the  thing  .  .  .  and  take  the  consequences,  she 
came  swiftly  forward,  put  an  arm  around  Judith's  waist 
and  kissed  her  full  on  the  mouth.  It  had  been  so  long 
since  any  one  had  kissed  her !  The  lips  were  speaking 
now,  the  tone  low  and  vibrant  with  pleading. 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?  If  you  only  knew  how  I 
adore  you !  I  have  sat  at  my  window  and  watched  you 
— and  wondered  about  you — and  wanted  to  kiss  you,  till 
my  mouth  ached." 

A  thrill  went  through  the  woman's  usually  tranquil 
body.  Here  was  passion,  susceptibility,  imagination. 
She  had  not  dreamed  of  §uch  intensity  in  a  girl  so  young. 
And  this  was  the  girl  Larimore  Trench  had  begged  her 
to  influence,  to  mould  into  some  shape  of  his  choosing — 
a  shape  that  would  be  utterly  displeasing  to  her  mother. 

"Can  you  come  into  the  house  with  me?  It's  only  a 
little  after  eight.  You  won't  be  late  for  chapel  if  you 
start  at  half-past." 

"I'm  in  no  hurry.  Hal's  coming  by  for  me  with  the 
car.  He'll  be  on  the  campus  five  minutes  before  he 
started,  if  our  old  moth-eaten  policeman  happens  to  be 
looking  the  other  way.  I  framed  up  the  best  looking  ex- 
cuse for  a  morning  call  .  .  .  and  now  I  don't  need 
it.  You  invited  me  in — just  like  that!  It's  always  the 
way.  If  I  have  my  gun  loaded,  there  isn't  any  bear." 

"Did  you  think  you  needed  a  pretext?" 


68  Indian  Summer 

"I  couldn't  be  sure.  And  with  you  .  .  .  it's  too  im- 
portant to  take  chances.  I've  been  feeling  my  way,  ever 
since  you  came.  I  can't  go  dancing  in,  as  Theo  does. 
She  is  like  mamma.  You  simply  can't  snub  that  kid." 

The  pretext  was  the  revelation  of  the  mystery-house 
across  the  way.  Hal  had  told  her  all  about  it,  after  they 
left  Ina  and  Kitten  and  their  escorts.  The  owner  of  the 
carved  dragon  was  Hal's  sister,  Adelaide  Nims.  There 
had  been  a  former  marriage,  about  the  time  of  Hal's 
birth,  a  most  unsavoury  affair.  Adelaide  was  seventeen 
at  the  time,  and  the  reluctant  husband  was  the  divorced 
partner  of  one  of  Henry  Marksley's  affinities.  The 
Marksleys,  pere  and  mere,  had  been  separated  three 
times.  Eileen  and  Hal  agreed  that  it  was  indecent  for 
people  who  despised  each  other  to  live  together.  Still, 
if  his  parents  had  not  made  up  that  last  time,  there  would 
have  been  no  Hal.  This  would  have  been  calamity  for 
Eileen. 

The  present  Mrs.  Nims  was  little  known  in  Spring- 
dale,  having  lived  abroad  for  almost  twenty  years.  Her 
first  husband,  in  Eileen's  piquant  phrase,  "had  chucked 
her"  after  a  few  months — as  a  man  usually  does  when 
he  is  dragooned  into  a  distasteful  marriage.  There  had 
been  other  marriages,  "without  benefit  of  clergy,"  the 
details  of  which  were  suppressed  in  Springdale.  Indeed 
coming  to  light  only  in  connection  with  a  divorce  or  two 
wherein  Adelaide  had  figured  as  the  reprehensible  other 
woman.  She  had  hair  like  polished  mahogany  and  melt- 
ing brown  eyes,  a  skin  like  the  petals  of  a  Victoria  Regia, 
at  dawn  of  the  morning  after  the  lily's  opening,  before 
the  sun  has  tinged  its  creamy  white  with  the  faint  rose 
that  is  destined  to  run  the  colour  gamut  to  rich  purplish 
red.  She  and  Syd  Schubert  vied  with  each  other  in  the 
number  of  instruments  they  could  play;  but  she  had  made 


Eileen  Seeks  Counsel  69 

her  great  success  with  the  'cello,  an  instrument  whose 
playing  revealed  to  the  best  possible  advantage  the  slim 
sensual  grace  of  her  body. 

It  was  in  a  London  music  hall  that  Reginald  Nims, 
younger  son  of  a  peer,  had  fallen  beneath  the  weight  of 
her  manifold  charms  and  had  married  her — to  the  dismay 
of  his  family.  Eileen  knew  what  she  looked  like.  Not 
from  Hal's  description,  but  because  Springdale  had  seen 
her  portrait.  Just  before  she  and  her  husband  left 
England  for  China,  they  had  sent  it  home  for  safe  keep- 
ing .  .  .  the  magnificent  portrait  that  Sargent  had 
painted.  Mrs.  Henderson  gave  a  talk  on  it,  in  the  read- 
ing room  of  the  college  library.  Red  hair,  coppery  in 
the  high  lights,  eyes  that  would  turn  an  anchorite  from 
the  path  of  duty,  skin  texture  that  was  unsurpassed  in  the 
far  reach  of  Sargent's  marvellous  texture  painting,  a  chif- 
fon gown  that  reminded  you  of  a  cloud  of  flame-shot 
smoke,  and  a  bit  of  still-life  that  was  definitely,  though 
not  insistently,  turquoise. 

"Mrs.  Henderson  said  that  when  she  read  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  picture,  she  supposed  it  was  going  to  look  like 
a  Henner;  but  it  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  had  to  go 
on  the  Q.  T.  to  hear  her  talk.  Of  course  you  know, 
mamma  belongs  to  the  Art  Study  Club ;  but  she  was  scan- 
dalized at  Mrs.  Henderson  getting  up  there  and  talking 
about  Adelaide  Marksley.  Lary  tried  to  make  her  see 
that  it  was  Sargent  .  .  .  but  what's  the  use?  You  can't 
get  that  kind  of  an  idea  into  my  mother's  head." 

The  Browning  Club  had  long  since  gone  the  way  of 
Browning.  But  Mrs.  Henderson,  after  the  death  of 
her  husband,  was  constrained  to  seek  new  means  of  hold- 
ing her  grip  on  the  social  and  intellectual  leadership  of 
the  town.  Fortunately  Mrs.  Clarkson,  wife  of  the  new 
Dean,  was  not  aggressive.  She  was  glad  to  be  enrolled, 


7O  Indian  Summer 

along  with  Mrs.  David  Trench,  as  a  member  of  the  Art 
Study  Club.  Being  a  late  comer  in  the  town,  she  knew 
no  reason  why  she  should  withdraw  her  moral  support 
from  the  club,  after  its  shocking  display  of  the  Sargent 
picture. 

"But  I  hope  the  poor  girl  is  at  last  happily  married," 
Mrs.  Ascott  hastened  to  say.  She  wondered  if  Eileen 
was  always  quite  fair  to  her  mother. 

"That's  just  what  she  isn't.  And  thereby  hangs  the 
tale  of  their  coming  here  to  live  for  a  couple  of  years. 
Hal  said  his  father  wanted  to  rent  Vine  Cottage  for 
them — and  in  that  case  they  wouldn't  have  brought  their 
furniture.  But  your  Mr.  Ramsay  got  ahead  of  him. 
I'm  glad  he  did.  But  mamma  would  have  turned  them 
out,  lease  or  no  lease,  if  she  ever  got  her  eyes  on  an 
English  paper  published  in  Hong  Kong,  that  Hal  showed 
me,  last  night.  It  was  the  rippingest  account  you  ever 
read,  of  Adelaide's  elopement  with  a  member  of  the 
military  band.  It  started  in  a  sort  of  musical  flirtation 
.  .  .  and  ended  in  a  miserable  little  hotel  in  Fu  Chau. 
The  writer  said  your  sympathy  would  be  with  Mrs.  Nims 
if  you  looked  at  the  shape  of  Reginald  Nims,  and  re- 
membered that  his  wife  was  fond  of  dancing.  Hal 
doesn't  know  what  that  means — because  he  never  saw  his 
brother-in-law.  He  must  be  either  a  cripple  or  fat.  It 
won't  be  long  till  we  know.  They  sail  from  Honolulu 
tomorrow." 

"Then  she's  reconciled  to  her  husband?" 

"Had  to  be!  She's  trying  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
mess.  The  musician  soured  on  his  bargain.  .  .  ." 
The  amber  eyes  flamed  yellow.  "Left  her  in  the  room 
at  the  hotel,  and  gave  her  husband  the  key.  How  did 
he  know  Nims  wouldn't  kill  her?  I  should  think  he 
would — if  he  had  any  spirit.  They're  coming  here  till 


Eileen  Seeks  Counsel  71 

the  scandal  blows  over  and  they  can  go  back  to  London. 
Adelaide  loathes  China,  and  adores  England.  Hal  said 
he  guessed  that  Nims  couldn't  bear  to  part  with  a  wife 
who  had  red  hair,  even  if  he  had  to  do  the  reversed 
Mormon  stunt  once  in  a  while." 

Mrs.  Ascott  experienced  a  swift  revulsion — not  at  the 
story  Eileen  was  telling.  She  had  heard  many  such. 
But  in  the  bald  discussion  of  sex  encounters  there  lurked 
a  definite  element  of  danger.  For  another,  and  less  se- 
rious reason,  Hal  Marksley  ought  not  to  be  telling  this 
story  in  Springdale,  where  his  sister  expected  to  live. 
But  Eileen  hastened  to  explain  that  she  alone  was  in  the 
secret,  and  she  .  .  .  "was  part  of  the  family." 
"Really,  my  dear?  I  hadn't  suspected." 
"Yes,  Lady  Judith,  and  if  you'll  let  me,  I'm  coming 
back  after  school  to  tell  you  what  I  actually  came  to  tell 
you  this  morning.  May  I?  I'll  have  to  chase  home 
and  get  my  books.  Hal's  honking  for  me,  this  minute." 

Ill 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  Eileen  came  home  from 
school,  tossed  her  things  on  the  settee  in  the  living-room 
and  curled  herself  up  contentedly  on  a  hassock  at  Mrs. 
Ascott's  feet.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  low 
brow  was  framed  in  little  caressing  ringlets.  She  looked 
amazingly  like  Lary.  Happiness  fairly  exuded  from  her 
being. 

"I  can't  beat  around  the  bush,  Lady  Judith.  When 
I  have  anything  to  say  ...  I  have  to  go  to  it  with  both 
feet.  Will  you  take  care  of  this  for  me?" 

She  drew  a  shining  gold  chain  from  somewhere  within 
the  harbouring  crispness  of  her  pique  collar,  wound  the 
pliant  links  around  her  slender  forefinger,  and  brought 
to  light  a  ring  set  with  a  huge  diamond.  Hal  had  given 


72  Indian  Summer 

it  to  her  that  morning.  She  had  known  about  it  for 
some  time.  The  stone  was  one  of  many  that  belonged 
to  his  father  .  .  .  and  would  never  be  missed.  There 
was  a  good  handful  of  them  in  a  box  in  the  office  safe, 
and  Adelaide  would  coax  them  all  away  from  her  father. 
He,  ^ial,  might  as  well  get  his — while  the  getting  was 
good.  He  had  taken  this  one,  and  another  for  a  scarf 
pin  for  himself,  to  St.  Louis  to  be  mounted  the  day  after 
he  and  Eileen  became  engaged. 

"You  haven't  told  your  mother?"  Mrs.  Ascott  inter- 
rupted. 

"I  can't!  I  can't  1  If  you  knew  mamma  better.  .  .  . 
It  would  take  all  the  sacredness — all  the  meaning  out 
of  it  ...  to  have  mamma  preen  herself  because  her 
daughter  is  going  to  marry  the  son  of  the  richest  man  in 
town." 

"And  your  father,  Eileen?" 

The  fair  face  went  gray,  and  pain  quivered  the  sen- 
sitive lips.  "I  can't  make  that  as  clear  as  the  other;  but 
I'm  the  most  unfortunate  person  in  the  world.  You 
don't  know  how  I  have  dreamt  of  the  time  when  I  could 
go  to  my  darling  old  daddy  and  hide  my  blushes  in  his 
shoulder,  while  I  told  him  that  the  greatest  thing  in  life 
had  come  to  me.  And  now  that  it's  come  ...  he 
wouldn't  understand  ...  or  approve.  And  mamma, 
who  hasn't  a  mortal  bit  of  use  for  me,  would  take  it  as 
a  personal  triumph.  Rush  off  to  that  silly  little  Brom- 
field  Sentinel  with  an  announcement  of  my  engagement, 
and  all  about  who  the  Marksleys  are,  and  how  much 
money  they  have.  I  just  can't  give  her  that  gratifica- 
tion. I'd  choke." 

Sixteen !  and  she  had  life's  irony  at  her  finger  ends. 
The  amber  eyes  filled  with  tears  that  glistened  a  moment 
on  the  long  lashes  and  went  trickling  down  the  pale 


Eileen  Seeks  Counsel  73 

cheeks  to  make  little  welts  on  the  stiffly  starched  pique 
collar.  Mrs.  Ascott  felt  no  impulse  to  smile.  Here  was 
a  little  hurt  child,  whose  quivering  lips  might  have  been 
pleading  for  the  life  of  a  puppy  condemned  to  be 
drowned.  And  it  was  all  so  deadly  serious  to  her. 
Love?  She  might  experience  a  dozen  such  heart-burn- 
ings before  the  dawning  of  the  great  passion. 

"My  dear,  there  is  a  touchstone  given  to  each  one  of 
us,  before  we  reach  the  years  of  discretion  and  judgment. 
Mine  was  my  grandmother.  Yours,  I  believe,  is  your 
father.  I  hid  my  engagement  to  Raoul  Ascott  from 
Grandma  Holden.  Only  because  I  knew  she  would  not 
approve.  And,  Eileen,  my  marriage  turned  out 
wretchedly.  My  husband  was  much  older  than  I.  And, 
do  you  know,  dear,  the  immature  mind  is  keenly  flattered 
by  the  attention  of  the  mature  one.  Hal  is  a  college 
senior,  almost  five  years  older  than  you.  If  you  could  be 
sure  your  vanity  isn't  involved — M 

"No,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Hal  loves  me. 
You  can't  understand  what  that  means  to  me  .  .  .  be- 
cause .  .  .  you  don't  know  how  my  people  regard  me. 
The  only  thing  I  ever  wanted  is  love.  Not  the  kind  that 
papa  gives  me.  That's  too  general.  He  loves  every- 
thing and  everybody — including  my  mother,  when  she 
treats  him  like  a  dog.  But  I  don't  want  to  think  about 
them,  now.  It  hurts  ...  to  think  about  my  father.  I 
can  stand  it,  because  I'm  not  very  lovable.  He  couldn't 
be  unkind  if  he  tried.  He  would  go  on  loving  his  chil- 
dren, if  we  did  the  worst  thing  in  the  world.  I  used  to 
wish  Lary  would  love  me  .  .  .  he's  so  much  like  papa 
in  some  ways.  But  you  couldn't  tell  anybody  that  what 
you  wanted  was  love.  They'd  think  you  were  stalling — 
that  you  were  after  something  else,  and  used  that  for  a 
blind.  Why,  even  Bob  didn't  really  know  me — and  he 


74  Indian  Summer 

was  the  best  friend  I  ever  had.  I  used  to  steal  matches 
for  him,  when  he  was  learning  to  smoke,  and  I've  taken 
many  a  lickin'  to  keep  him  out  of  trouble.  I  got  mean 
and  hateful  after  he  was  drowned.  Talk  about  an  all- 
wise  Providence !  I  couldn't  have  any  respect  for  a  God 
that  would  kill  Bob  and  leave  me  alive." 

"But  Dr.  Schubert—" 

"Yes,  he  and  Syd.  .  .  ."  Her  lips  tightened.  "They 
wouldn't  approve  of  Hal  either.  He  has  a  reputation 
for  being  .  .  .  well,  rather  loose  in  his  ideas.  He  isn't 
a  bit  worse  than  the  other  boys  in  college.  But  he  hap- 
pens not  to  be  the  psalm-singing  kind.  I  hate  the  tight 
ideas  I  was  brought  up  on.  But  that  isn't  what  makes 
me  love  Hal.  Lady  Judith,  if  you  had  been  told  all  your 
life  that  you  were  ugly  and  cross  and  good-for-nothing 
.  .  .  and  somebody  came  along  who  thought  you  were 
sweet  and  clever  and  beautiful — "  She  laughed  shortly. 
"Yes,  all  of  that!  I  know  I'm  built  according  to  the 
architecture  of  an  ironing  board;  but  Hal  says  my  form 
is  perfect.  He  twists  my  hair  around  his  fingers  by 
the  hour,  and  he  just  loves  to  stroke  my  cheeks,  because 
my  skin  is  soft — like  Lary's,  and  papa's.  Don't  you 
see?  Being  loved  like  that — " 

"Yes,  Eileen,  I  see.  How  soon  are  you  going  to  be 
married?" 

"Not  for  years  and  years.  I  persuaded  Hal,  last 
night,  to  go  to  Pratt  Institute,  instead  of  that  third  rate 
college  where  he  was  going  to  take  finance.  I  want  him 
to  do  that — so  that  Lary'll  respect  him.  He  doesn't  in- 
tend to  settle  down  in  this  dried-up  village.  He  hates  it 
as  much  as  I  do."  She  fell  silent  a  moment. 
"There's  only  one  drawback  to  living  away  from  Spring- 
dale." 

"Leaving  your  father?" 


Eileen  Seeks  Counsel  75 

"No,  he  wouldn't  mind  that,  and  neither  would  I — 
after  I  had  a  family  of  my  own.  But  if  one  of  my  chil- 
dren should  get  sick — very  sick — and  I  couldn't  reach 
Syd — I'd  be  frantic!  Syd's  the  only  doctor  who  knows 
what's  the  matter  with  a  baby." 

"You  love  children,  Eileen?" 

"I  adore  them."  She  hugged  her  breast  ecstatically. 
"I  hope  I'll  have  six.  Hal  loves  them,  too.  That's  only 
one  of  the  tastes  we  have  in  common.  He  wants  a 
home  .  .  .  he'd  even  be  willing  to  let  Lary  build  it,  and 
select  the  furniture.  And  that's  a  lot  ...  the  way  my 
brother  treats  him.  I  hope  you'll  try  to  see  his  fine  side, 
to  like  him  .  .  .  for  my  sake.  You  know  what  it's  go- 
ing to  mean  to  me." 


XI    Vicarious  Living 


Hal  Marksley  called  regularly  in  his  car  to  take  the 
two  girls  to  school.  Theo,  in  the  role  of  chaperone,  was 
novel,  to  say  the  least.  Occasionally  he  and  Eileen  went 
for  long  rides  in  the  country  when  classes  were  over. 
Once  they  were  delayed  by  the  amusing  annoyance  of 
three  punctures,  and  it  was  dinner  time  when  they  neared 
home.  Hal  took  the  precaution  to  leave  the  roadster 
on  Grant  Drive,  traversing  the  three  short  blocks  to 
Elm  Street  on  foot.  On  other  occasions,  when  there 
was  no  danger  of  encountering  the  men-folk  of  the 
family,  Mrs.  Trench  would  invite  him  in  for  lemonade 
and  cake,  after  which  she  would  command  Eileen  to  play 
her  latest  violin  piece — usually  a  bravura  of  technique, 
quite  as  incomprehensible  to  Mrs.  Trench's  accustomed 
ears  as  to  Hal's — during  which  the  youth  would  drum 
the  window  sill  with  impatient  fingers. 

It  was  understood  between  the  young  people  that  Mrs. 
Ascott  alone  was  in  the  secret,  and  that  the  engagement 
ring  had  been  placed  with  some  of  her  valuables  in  Dr. 
Schubert's  vault,  against  the  time  when  it  would  be  safe 
to  display  it.  There  was  one  drop  of  bitter  in  Eileen's 
great  happiness.  Her  father.  Even  since  her  talk  with 
Judith,  she  had  been  conscious  of  something  essentially 
dishonourable  in  her  conduct.  She  was  beginning  to  look 
at  her  father  with  awakened  eyes.  He  had  always  been 
a  person  of  little  consequence  in  his  home.  Lavinia  was 
the  dynamo  that  drove  the  plant.  David  was  a  belt  or 

76 


Vicarious  Living  77 

a  fly-wheel,  a  driving  rod  or  some  such  nonessential — 
easily  replaced  if  he  should  break  or  rust.  But  David 
Trench  would  never  rust.  His  wife  kept  him  going  at 
such  a  rate  that  a  high  polish  was  his  only  alternative. 
Rust  gathers  on  unused  metal.  Eileen  wondered  what 
her  father  was  like — inside.  What  her  mother  was  like, 
for  that  matter.  David  talked  little  and  Lavinia  talked 
all  the  time,  and  the  revelation  of  silence  was,  if  any- 
thing, more  informing  than  that  of  incessant  chatter. 

Mrs.  Ascott  might  win  Lary  over  to  a  reluctant  ac- 
ceptance of  the  engagement;  but  that  would  have  small 
bearing  on  the  problem  of  her  father.  It  was  the  way 
with  pliant  natures.  You  can  bend  them  without  in  the 
least  influencing  their  ultimate  resistance.  Lavinia  might 
be  shattered  by  a  well  directed  blow,  whereas  David 
would  yield  courteous  response.  There  might  be  a  dent 
in  his  feelings,  but  his  convictions  would  remain  as  they 
were. 

II 

One  Friday  afternoon,  as  April  lingered  tiptoe  on 
the  threshold  of  May,  Dr.  Schubert  sent  for  Lary  to  as- 
sist him  with  a  peculiarly  difficult  experiment,  one  calling 
for  strong  nerves  and  a  quick  perception.  When  it  was 
finished,  Lary  and  Judith  walked  home  together,  cross* 
ing  the  campus  to  avoid  the  thoroughfare  that  connected 
the  old  residence  quarter  with  the  fashionable  section 
that  had  rooted  itself  in  the  once  fertile  farms  of  Spring- 
dale's  newer  society. 

"Would  you  mind  going  a  little  out  of  your  way?" 
the  man  asked,  consulting  his  watch.  "It's  early,  and  I 
have  a  troublesome  problem.  You  know  women — I 
don't." 

"An  estimate  of  a  possible  Mrs.  Trench?    Take  my 


78  Indian  Summer 

advice,  Lary.  Have  her  sized  up  for  you  by  a  man- 
never  by  another  woman.  Women  can't  be  just  to  each 
other  when  they  meet  on  ...  mating  ground.  Be- 
sides, no  woman  ever  tells  a  man  quite  what  she  thinks  of 
another  woman.  The  other  woman's  secret  is,  in  part, 
her  own.  She  must  guard  it — as  you  guarded  the  silly 
secrets  of  your  college  fraternity.  If  you  ever  saw  the 
inside  of  one  of  us,  you'd  know  how  little  there  is  to  con- 
ceal. But  the  mystery  .  .  .  that's  the  important  thing. 
Still,  I'll  do  my  best.  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  mother, 
and  ought  to  trust  my  judgment." 

"There  is  no  potential  Mrs.  Trench  in  this  problem. 
The  thing  that's  worrying  me  is  the  inglenook  in  a  house 
I'm  building  in  Roosevelt  Place.  The  woman — who  has 
exceptionally  definite  ideas  of  architecture — has  changed 
her  mind  three  times.  Now  she's  as  dissatisfied  with  her 
own  planning  as  she  is  with  mine.  We're  at  our 
wits'  end,  and  I  must  find — ' 

"Look,  Lary,   those  birds!    They're   fighting!" 

The  woman  seized  his  arm  and  whirled  him  about. 
They  were  nearing  the  end  of  the  campus  walk,  where 
the  maples  cast  slow-dancing  shadows  on  the  hard  gravel. 
Larimore  Trench  almost  lost  his  footing,  as  the  pebbles 
scurried  across  the  grass.  He  looked  at  his  companion 
in  asconishment.  She  was  not  one  to  go  off  her  head  at 
trifles,  yet  her  tone  revealed  genuine  alarm.  In  the 
grass,  not  ten  feet  away,  two  chesty  robins  were  battling 
like  miniature  game  cocks,  their  cries  denoting  a  gro- 
tesque kind  of  rage. 

"La  femme  in  the  case  is  over  there  on  that  syringa," 
Lary  told  her,  "estimating  the  prospects  for  the  posterity 
she  expects  to  mother.  I  have  never  been  satisfied  with 
the  age  I  have  to  live  in.  But  I'm  glad  I  wasn't  born  a 
troglodyte,  in  a  world  crying  for  population." 


Vicarious  Living  79 

As  he  spoke,  his  back  to  the  street,  Hal  and  Eileen 
whisked  by  in  their  car  and  disappeared  around  the  cor- 
ner. The  two  watched  the  birds  a  moment.  Then  they 
resumed  their  walk.  The  easy  confidence  that  had 
grown,  quite  unnoticed,  between  them  was  interrupted. 
Strive  as  they  would  they  could  find  no  common  ground. 
Judith  was  vexed  with  Eileen.  Why  should  she  come 
along,  with  her  crashing  discord,  at  just  that  moment? 
And  again,  why  did  it  matter  whether  she  and  Larimore 
Trench  had  a  pleasant  walk  or  a  sullen  one?  They  had 
long  since  discussed  every  problem  under  the  sun — and 
had  found  all  of  them  hopelessly  old.  As  they  turned 
from  Grant  Drive  and  were  entering  Roosevelt  Place, 
she  paused  to  lay  an  arresting  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Lary,  there  are  three  houses  here  under  construction. 
The  one  near  the  middle  of  the  block  is  yours.  You 
haven't  even  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  the  other  two." 

The  man — not  the  architect — flushed  with  pleasure. 
He  had  never  talked  shop  to  Mrs.  Ascott,  and  her  rec- 
ognition of  one  of  his  ideas,  simply  rendered  in  rough 
concrete  and  blue-green  tile,  pleased  him.  She  would 
help  him  to  compromise  with  Mrs.  Morton  about  that 
inglenook.  But  the  inglenook  was  only  a  subterfuge. 
He  wanted  to  talk  to  her  about  his  sister.  She  alone 
could  make  Eileen  see  that  her  admirer  was  unccuth,  a 
good-looking  animal  devoid  of  a  single  quality  to  survive 
the  honeymoon. 

Ill 

As  they  picked  their  way  cautiously  between  paint  cans 
and  piles  of  building  refuse,  Lary  discovered  that  the 
workmen  had  erected  a  barricade  ^between  the  front  hall 
and  the  livingroom,  and  the  angle  of  the  stairway  shut 
the  chimney  corner  from  view.  On  the  second  floor 


8o  Indian  Summer 

there  was  another  obstacle.  The  floors  had  been  newly 
waxed,  and  a  stern  "Verboten"  flaunted  its  impotent  ar- 
rogance in  their  path.  They  continued  their  climb  to 
the  third  floor,  where  children,  servants,  billiards,  and 
winter  garments  would  be  harboured.  Judith  paused  in 
the  door  to  the  nursery,  crossed  the  room  and  sank,  ex- 
hausted, in  the  wide  window  seat.  Lary  found  place 
beside  her,  as  he  told  her  of  the  clever  girl  who  had  done 
the  Peter  Pan  frieze  above  the  yellow  painted  wall. 

"Are  you  fond  of  children,  Lary?"  She  was  thinking 
of  Eileen. 

"No,  I  detest  them." 

"You —  But  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing?  Your 
understanding  with  Theodora  is  perfect.  You  kindle, 
you  glow,  when  you  are  telling  her  stories  from  the 
classics." 

"That's  because  she  isn't  a  child.  I  believe  she  never 
was.  But  my  affection  for  her  didn't  begin  when  she 
was.  .  .  .  The  first  few  months,  I  believe  I  hated  her. 
I  may  tell  you  about  it  some  time.  When  I  lose  patience 
with  my  mother — and  other  women — I  think  about  that 
hideous  afternoon,  twelve  years  ago  last  December.  I 
don't  believe  any  child — or  anything  else  that  men  and 
women  are  at  such  a  bother  to  create  and  leave  behind 
them — is  worth  all  that  suffering." 

Mrs.  Ascott  withdrew,  ever  so  little.  She  did  not 
like  Larimore  Trench  when  his  tone  revealed  that  pecu- 
liar timbre,  that  quality  of  boyish  cynicism.  He  had 
seen  so  much  of  books,  so  little  of  life.  And  then  it  came 
to  her  that  he  viewed  everything  in  the  sordid  world — 
the  world  outside  his  imagination — through  the  distort- 
ing lenses  of  his  mother's  personality,  her  limitations 
and  her  prejudices.  In  his  most  violent  opposition  he 
was,  nevertheless,  directed  by  her.  He  would  go  to  the 


Vicarious  Living  81 

south  pole  .  .  .  because  she  stood  obstinately  at  the 
north.  It  was  she  who  shaped  his  course,  determined 
his  stand.  Her  insistence  on  the  fundamental  impor- 
tance of  material  progress  drove  him  early  to  the  post  of 
disinterested  onlooker.  That  he  did  his  work,  and  did 
it  well,  was  a  reflex  of  his  inner  nature,  the  nature  that 
came  to  him  when  David's  fineness  and  Lavinia's  dy- 
namic ardour  were  fused,  in  a  moment  of  unthinking  con- 
tact. And  it  was  the  penalty  of  such  fusing,  that  neither 
of  his  parents  comprehended  the  nature  they  had  given 
him. 

IV 

The  silence  towered,  opaque  and  forbidding,  between 
them.  But  they  had  come  with  a  purpose,  groping  their 
way  to  the  same  objective,  neither  one  guessing  what  was 
in  the  other's  mind.  By  a  devious  path,  that  was  never- 
theless essentially  feminine,  Judith  approached: 

"Lary,  do  you  want  to  tell  me  about  your  brother? 
'It  would  have  made  such  a  difference  in  Eileen's  life — if 
he  had  lived." 

"You  would  have  enjoyed  Bob — a  tremendous  fellow, 
every  phase  of  him.  He  played  half-back  on  the  college 
team  when  he  was  sixteen.  And  at  that,  he  took  the 
state  cup  in  the  half  mile  dash.  He  had  medals  for  ham- 
mer throwing  and  pole  vault.  There  is  a  whole  case  of 
his  cups  and  ribbons  in  the  college  library.  He's  the 
only  one  of  us  who  inherited  my  mother's  energy.  Oh, 
Sylvia,  of  course.  She  can  rattle  around  and  make  a 
great  showing — and  she  does  actually  accomplish  things 
when  she  has  a  definite  purpose  .  .  .  something  she 
wants  to  do.  The  rest  of  us  are  a  listless  pack.  We'd 
rather  climb  a  tree  and  watch  the  parade  go  by.  But 
Bob  was  in  everything,  for  the  sheer  fun  of  living.  It 


82  Indian  Summer 

looks  to  me  like  a  stupid  blunder  ...  to  cut  off  such 
virility  before  it  had  perpetuated  itself." 

"Eileen  told  me  she  had  lost  her  respect  for  God, 
since  her  brother  was  drowned.  She  was  so  nai've  and 
in  such  deadly  earnest." 

"Eileen  was  a  born  doubter.  I  was  sixteen  when  I 
revolted  against  the  idea  of  a  Deity  with  the  duties  of  an 
ordinary  stockroom  clerk — and  it  was  one  of  Eileen's 
searching  questions  that  set  me  thinking.  Not  bad  for 
six  years  old.  Mamma  holds  to  the  old  orthodox  belief 
as  one  of  the  hallmarks  of  respectability.  In  her  day, 
and  town,  the  iconoclasts  were  pool-room  keepers  and 
saloon  bums.  The  catechism  was  drilled  into  us  as  soon 
as  we  could  talk.  My  mother  would  have  been  a  great 
ritualist,  if  she  had  had  the  luck  to  be  born  an  Anglican. 
There  isn't  much  in  her  church  to  hang  your  hat  on." 

"But  your  father,  Lary — religion  means  something  to 
him." 

"Yes  .  .  .  it's  about  all  he  has.  Eileen  breaks  his 
heart  with  her  irreverent  flings.  I  spare  him.  Not 
because  I  am  more  considerate  than  she.  More  selfish, 
perhaps.  I  can't  take  the  consequences  of  inflicting  pain. 
You'll  call  it  crass  spiritual  weakness — a  flaw  in  the  cast- 
ing. I've  tried  to  overcome  it.  I  couldn't  have  en- 
dured  "  His  voice  wavered,  "Last  night  I  heard 

my  father  praying  for  Eileen.  It  was  ghastly.  I 
wanted  to  tell  her  how  she  is  torturing  him.  But  it 
would  only  provoke  a  fresh  outburst  of  scoffing." 

"Lary,  will  you  give  Eileen  into  my  hands — stop 
worrying  about  her — you  and  your  father?  Will  you 
persuade  him  that  I  have  been  sent  'from  on  high'  to 
guide  her  through  this  wilderness?  I  may  fail;  but  I  have 
her  confidence." 

"Papa  was  afraid,  because  you  were  rich,  that  you 


Vicarious  Living  83 

would  share  her  mother's  view.  Oh,  not  that  Eileen 
took  refuge  in  your  sympathy.  She's  too  proud,  too 
good  a  sport,  for  that.  She  only  told  him  that  money, 
per  se,  was  no  obstacle — vide  Mrs.  Ascott.  Before 
she  was  through  with  it,  she  told  him  that  if  he  kept  on, 
she  would  go  to  the  devil  with  Hal  Marksley.  It  was 
after  that  that  he  carried  his  trouble  to  the  God  who  is 
said  to  answer  prayers." 

"As  a  substitute  for  the  Deity.  .  .  .  But  at  least, 
Lary,  I  know  the  premises.  And  at  the  worst,  it  is  only 
the  working  out  of  her  own  nature.  No  one  can  live 
Eileen's  life  for  her,  not  even  her  father.  But  there's 
the  tower  clock,  striking  six.  You  will  be  late  for  din- 
ner— and  we  haven't  looked  at  that  inglenook." 


XII    The  Poem  Judith  Read 


From  her  vine-screened  retreat  in  the  summer  house, 
Judith  Ascott  looked  out  on  the  fairest  May  Day  she 
had  ever  known.  It  was  the  morning  after  .  .  .  and 
the  promise  she  had  made  to  Lary  hung  sinister  and  fore- 
boding over  her  spirit.  Everything  around  her  was 
vibrant  with  coming  summer.  At  home  the  buds  would 
be  opening  timorously,  while  here  the  perennial  climbers 
were  in  full  leaf.  An  aureate  splendour,  seductive  as 
Danae's  rain,  rippled  through  the  open  structure  of  the 
pergola,  transmuting  the  pebble  walk  to  a  pavement  of 
costly  gems;  but  within  the  widening  of  the  arbour—- 
that David  had  converted  into  an  outdoor  living-room — 
the  frightened  shadows  sought  refuge  from  the  shafts 
that  would  presently  destroy  them.  To  the  cool  umbra- 
geous corner  nearest  the  house,  where  the  light  was  faint, 
the  woman  had  taken  her  world-weary  body,  yearning 
for  the  relaxation  her  bed  had  denied  her. 

It  was  all  so  insistent,  this  new  life  that  had  come  to 
her,  its  music  keyed  to  a  pitch  she  had  never  realized,  a 
tempo  beyond  the  reach  of  her  experience.  The 
Trenches.  Were  there  other  families  in  the  universe  like 
this  one?  Before  her  coming  to  Springdale  she  had 
viewed  the  world  through  a  thick  forest  of  people,  most 
of  them  intolerably  tiresome.  In  the  main  they  were 
contented  .  .  .  such  contentment  as  is  to  be  derived 
from  a  favourable  turn  in  the  market  or  the  balm  of 
Bermuda  to  beguile  a  winter's  day.  Happy  lives,  she 


The  Poem  Judith  Read  85 

had  read,  make  uninteresting  biographies.  Her  life  had 
been  far  from  happy,  and  her  biography  would  be  utterly 
stupid.  Mrs.  Trench  was — she  realized  with  a  stab  of 
astonishment — a  desperately  unhappy  woman,  and  her 
life  story  was  made  up  of  a  propitious  marriage  and  six 
abnormally  interesting  children.  And  then  .  ,  .  Theo 
appeared  at  the  other  side  of  the  garden  wall,  discerned 
the  white-clad  figure  among  the  verdant  shadows  of  the 
summer  house,  and  scaled  the  low  barrier  with  the  nim- 
bleness  of  a  squirrel.  In  the  folds  of  her  skirt  she  held 
something,  and  a  furtive  air  pervaded  her  small  person. 

II 

"Dear  Lady  Judith,  may  I  have  the  honour  of  a  morn- 
ing call?" 

"Do  come,  you  little  ray  of  sunshine.  Your  Lady  Ju- 
dith's sky  is  overcast,  and  she  is  in  sore  need  of  cheer." 

"Don't  you  go  bothering  Mrs.  Ascott  this  morning," 
Theo's  mother  cried  sharply  from  the  pantry  window. 
"You  ought  to  know  enough  not  to  wear  out  your  wel- 
come." 

"No  danger,"  Judith  assured  her.  She  did  not  per- 
ceive the  look  of  sharp  displeasure  on  the  older  woman's 
face,  but  the  voice  affected  her  disagreeably,  and  she 
turned  for  relief  to  the  anomalous  reproduction  of  La- 
vinia,  who  was  already  nestling  confidently  at  her  side, 
on  the  oaken  settle.  The  child  spread  upon  her  knee 
two  sheets  of  paper,  on  which  many  lines  had  been  writ- 
ten. A  casual  glance  betrayed  the  agony  of  composi- 
tion. Words  had  been  discarded  by  the  device  of  an  im- 
patient pen  stroke.  Others  had  been  consigned  to  ob- 
livion by  means  of  carefully  drawn  lines.  Phrases  had 
been  transposed  and  rhyming  terminals  changed. 

"It's  a  poem.     I  thought  it  would  help  to  cheer  you 


86  Indian  Summer 

up.  Mamma  wouldn't  like  it,  and  neither  would  Mrs, 
Stevens — because  it  doesn't  hop  along  on  nice  little  iam- 
bic feet.  It  has  to  say  'te-tum,  te-tum,  te-tum,'  or  they 
think  it  isn't  poetry.  Eileen  writes  some  that  are  wilder 
than  this  one;  but  she  never  lets  mamma  see  them.  She 
wrote  one  on  Love,  last  Sunday  morning,  when  she  ought 
to  have  been  listening  to  the  sermon,  and  .  .  .  what 
do  you  think!  Left  it  in  the  hymn  book!  And  Kitten 
Henderson  found  it,  and  sent  it  to  Dan  Vincel  as  her  own 
composition." 

Mrs.  Ascott  took  the  copy,  scanning  the  first  page 
with  crescent  interest.  She  had  not  thought  of  Eileen  as 
a  poet.  Yet  such  intense  musical  feeling.  .  .  .  The 
musician  is  seldom  a  poet  of  marked  quality  or  distinc- 
tion. The  godlike  gifts  of  rhythm,  cadence,  imagery, 
these  may  not  flow  with  equal  volume  in  double  channels. 
Yet  the  verses,  however  crude,  would  shed  another  light 
on  a  nature  too  complex  for  ready  analysis.  There  was 
no  title,  no  clue  to  the  impulse  that  promoted  the  writ- 
ing. There  was  no  need  of  such.  A  girl  in  Eileen's 
rhapsodic  mental  state  would  not  go  far  in  search  of 
inspiration. 

"Birth,  Hope,  Ambition,  Love, 
These  four  the  minor  half  of  life  compose: 
The  sylvan  stream  to  broadening  river  flows, 
And,  golden-fair,  replete  with  promise,  glows 

The  radiant  Sun  above. 

"The  major  half  of  life? 
Love  scars  the  soul,  as  'twere  a  searing  brand : 
Ambition  turns  to  ashes  in  our  hand, 
Nor,  'til  the  glass  has  spilled  its  latest  sand, 

Comes  rest  from  urge  and  strife. 

"O  Birth!  thou  wanton  wight 
That  dost  with  smiles  enmask  thy  mocking  eyes ! 


The  Poem  Judith  Read  87 

How  dost  thou  cheat  the  unborn  soul  that  flies 
Full-eager  from  its  formless  Paradise 
To  realms  of  Death  and  Night!" 

Theo  sat  breathless,  a  flush  of  expectation  staining  her 
dark  skin,  as  the  first  page  was  laid  aside  and  the  second 
came  to  view.  Before  the  remaining  stanzas  were  fin- 
ished, her  heart  was  beating  visibly  through  the  thin 
morning  dress,  as  her  lips  fashioned  soundlessly  the  lines 
she  had  memorized  at  the  second  reading: 

"O  Love!  more  wanton  e'en 
Than  Birth  or  Hope  or  bold  Ambition,  thine 
To  lift  the  quivering  soul  to  heights  divine, 
To  mad  the  brain  with  Amor's  poisoned  wine, 

To  spread  thy  wonder-sheen 

"O'er  eyes  that  erst  could  see! 
Thy  promises,  how  fair,  how  full  of  bliss ! 
Are  mortals  born  for  rapture  such  as  this? 
Helas!  the  web  was  cunning-wove,  I  wis, 

That  e'en  entangled  me!" 

"Theodora,  are  you  sure  that  Eileen  wrote  these 
verses?" 

"Eileen?  Goodness,  no!  She  scrawls  all  over  the 
paper.  You  never  saw  her  write  a  neat  little  hand  like 
that." 

"Then  who  did  write  it?" 

"Why  .  .  .  Lary,  of  course.  I  thought  you  knew 
he  was  the  poet — the  real  poet  of  the  family.  He  wrote 
it  last  night.  I  saw  his  light  burning  at  four  o'clock 
this  morning.  I  couldn't  sleep,  either.  Mine  was  ear- 
ache. His  was  another  kind.  He  says  you  always  have 
to  agonize  when  you  write  anything  worth  while.  And  I 
think  this  poem  is  ...  worth  while  .  .  .  don't  you?" 

The  solid  ground  of  assurance  was,  somehow,  slip- 


88  Indian  Summer 

ping  from  beneath  her  feet.  Lady  Judith  was  not 
pleased.  Her  usually  pale  cheeks  burned  red,  and  there 
was  an  unfamiliar  look  in  her  eyes. 

"Eileen  told  you  to  bring  this  to  me?" 

"Humph!  You  don't  think  I'd  show  her  Lary's 
poem?  He  lets  me  see  lots  of  things  he  writes,  that 
mamma  and  the  rest  of  them  don't  know  anything  about 
— till  they're  published.  And  if  the  stupid  editors  send 
them  back — I  never  do  tell.  I  wouldn't  .  .  .  for  the 
world." 

"He  gave  you  this  to  read?" 

"N-n-not  exactly.  He  left  the  desk  unlocked.  Didn't 
put  the  top  quite  all  the  way  down,  and  one  corner  of 
the  paper  was  sticking  out.  I  had  to  see  what  it  was, 
so  that  if  it  was  something  the  others  oughtn't  to  see, 
I  could  put  it  under  the  blotter,  out  of  sight." 

An  expression  of  Dutton's  flashed  through  Mrs.  As- 
cott's  mind:  "Theo's  the  spit  of  her  mother.  She'll  do 
the  dirtiest  tricks,  and  explain  'em  on  high  moral 
grounds."  She  caught  and  held  the  dark,  troubled  eyes. 

"Theodora,  do  you  know  that  you  have  done  some- 
thing almost  unpardonable?" 

"But,  Lady  Judith,  when  anybody  feels  the  way  Lary 
does,  and  you  love  him  as  much  as  I  do — don't  you  see, 
the  sooner  there's  an  understanding,  the  better?  It  was 
that  way  with  the  Lady  Judith  in  the  story.  And  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  meddlesome  fairy,  that  found  the 
drawing  of  the  two  hearts,  interlocked,  the  Prince 
wouldn't  have  known,  till  it  was  too  late." 

"Theo,"  the  woman  interrupted  sharply,  "take  these 
two  sheets  of  paper  back  to  your  brother's  room,  and  lay 
them  exactly  as  you  found  them,  so  that  he  won't  know 
they  have  been  moved  or  seen." 

Fear  puckered  the  thin  little  face,  fear  and  chagrin. 


The  Poem  Judith  Read  89 

With  sparrow-like  motion  she  turned  and  darted  in  the 
direction  of  the  wicket  gate.  Midway  she  stopped,  ar- 
rested by  the  timbre  of  Mrs.  Ascott's  voice — a  sternness 
she  had  not  deemed  possible. 

"Come  back,  Theodora,  if  you  want  me  ever  to  care 
for  you  again." 

A  moment  the  lithe  body  wavered,  the  mind  irresolute, 
Then  she  set  her  head  impishly  on  one  side,  looked  at 
the  angry,  frightened  woman  with  a  scold-me-if-you-can 
expression,  and  slowly  retraced  her  steps,  dragging  her 
toes  in  the  gravel  and  swaying  her  straight  hips  from 
side  to  side.  It  was  pure  bravado.  At  the  entrance  to 
the  summer  house,  her  spirit  broke.  In  another  instant 
she  was  in  Mrs.  Ascott's  lap  and  great  sobs  were  shaking 
her  agitated  bosom. 

"There,  precious,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you.  But, 
can't  you  realize,  dearie?  You  must  be  made  to  realize, 
no  matter  how  it  hurts." 

"No,  you  are  the  one  who  must  be  made  to  realize.  I 
knew  it,  all  along." 

"Knew  what,  Theo?" 

"That  Lary's  crazy  about  you.  He  never  cared  for 
anybody — not  even  puppy-dog  love,  when  he  was  a  boy. 
He  was  glad  when  Sylvia  married,  so  he  wouldn't  have  to 
take  her  girl  friends  home — when  they  hung  around 
so  late  that  they  were  afraid  to  go  home  by  themselves. 
I've  been  waiting  to  tell  you  about  him  for  ever  so  long. 
You  couldn't  know  how  good  he  is — how  good — and 
wonderful."  The  smothered  voice  was  full  of  adora- 
tion. "He  has  the  dearest  ways,  when  you  are  all  alone 
with  him.  And  he  never  misses  the  point  of  a  joke. 
Mamma  can  say  witty  things;  but  she  almost  never  sees 
the  other  fellow's  joke.  And  his  hands  are  so  gentle — 
not  strong  and  rough,  like  Bob's.  If  you  only  knew.  .  .  . 


9<3  Indian  Summer 

But  Lary  wouldn't  ever  tell  you  the  nice  side  of  him." 

Hungry  arms  pressed  her  close. 

"Ah !"  the  advocate  stopped  her  pleading,  to  sigh  with 
infinite  relief.  "You  won't  be  angry  with  me.  But, 
Lady  Judith,  I  had  to  do  it  .  .  .  if  you  hadn't  ever  for- 
given me.  Lary  is  teaching  me  to  stand  things  like  a 
stoic.  And  when  so  much  depends  on  it — "  The  eyes 
flamed  with  an  idea.  "You  know,  like  walking  along  in 
the  dark,  and  all  at  once  somebody  strikes  a  match  to 
light  a  cigar,  and  you  see  that  there  is  a  hole  in  the  road 
that  you  would  have  fallen  into.  If  no  one  had  struck  a 
match,  how  would  you  know  the  hole  was  there?" 

"And  you  can  keep  this  secret — never  let  your  brother 
suspect?" 

"He's  the  last  person  in  the  world  that  I'd  tell.  He'd 
be  more  angry  than  you  were.  And  there's  another 
reason.  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  Lary  knows  what's  the 
matter  with  him.  Of  course  he  says — in  the  last  stanza 
of  the  poem.  He's  written  love  poetry  before,  when  it 
was  only  a  woman  he  imagined,  and  so  he  might  not 
think  it  was  serious.  Mrs.  Ferguson  said  that  if  her 
husband  had  suspected  that  he  was  falling  in  love  with 
her,  he  would  have  taken  the  first  train  out  of  town. 
Afterward  ...  he  was  glad  he  didn't  know." 

"Theodora!  Are  you  sixty  years  old,  and  have  you 
settled  the  marriage  problems  of  a  dozen  unpromising 
daughters  and  granddaughters?  Where  did  you  get 
such  ideas?" 

"I  heard  mamma  and  Mrs.  Ferguson  talking  about  it, 
before  Sylvia  w'as  married.  I  never  forget  anything  I 
hear;  but  it's  an  awful  long  time  before  I  get  light  on 
some  things.  When  I  read  Lary's  poem,  this  morning— 
and  came  to  that  last  line — and  remembered  how  pale 
you  looked  when  you  came  out  in  the  yard  before  break- 


The  Poem  Judith  Read  91 

fast  —  why,  all  at  once  the  ideas  came  tumbling  together, 
and  I  knew  that  Lary  mustn't  know  he  was  in  love  till 
he  was  so  far  in,  he  wouldn't  want  to  ever  get  out." 

It  was  adorable,  the  way  she  took  Mrs.  Ascott's  at- 
titude and  response  for  granted.  No  woman,  not  even 
the  enshrined  Lady  Judith,  would  fail  to  be  honoured  by 
Lary's  love. 


"Theo-^o-ra  !"  Drusilla's  broad  cadence  issued  from 
the  pantry  window.  Drusilla  was  the  coffee-coloured 
maid  of  all  work,  who  was  serving  temporarily  as  mouth- 
piece for  Mrs.  Trench.  "Come  home  this  minute, 
honey.  You  got  to  do  an  errand  befoh  lunch." 

Theodora  reflected  that  there  was  time  for  twenty 
such  errands.  And  her  perplexity  grew  when,  after  a 
few  minutes,  she  saw  Eileen  pass  through  the  wicket  gate 
to  take  Mrs.  Ascott  an  embroidery  pattern  from  an  old 
number  of  the  Self  Culture  magazine.  She  remembered 
distinctly  that  Mrs.  Ascott  had  said  she  did  not  care  par- 
ticularly about  it.  That  was  a  week  ago.  Why  had 
mamma  dragged  it  out  now,  and  sent  it  over  by  Eileen? 

With  all  her  wizard  penetration,  the  child  had  never 
glimpsed  the  deep  windings  of  her  mother's  mind.  Mrs. 
Ascott  could  not  be  counted  on  to  take  a  lively  interest  in 
two  of  the  Trench  children,  and  for  the  present  Eileen 
was  the  focal  point  of  her  mother's  concern.  More  and 
more  the  conviction  grew  that  this  woman  from  the  great 
outside  world  had  been  sent  by  Divine  Providence  to 
aid  in  bringing  to  swift  climax  what  otherwise  might 
have  been  a  long  drawn  out  affair. 

Long  engagements  were  dangerous.  Sylvia  had  been 
engaged  to  Tom  Henderson  for  two  years.  If  she,  La- 
vinia  Larimore,  had  listened  to  Calvin,  when  he  begged 


92  Indian  Summer 

her  to  run  away  and  be  married,  the  night  he  proposed 
to  her.  ...  It  was  when  she  reached  this  stage  in  her 
silent  soliloquy  that  she  determined  to  have  Drusilla  call 
Theodora  home,  and  send  Eileen  to  Vine  Cottage  in  her 
stead. 


XIII     Eyes  Turned  Homeward 

i 

It  is  improbable  that  Bromfield's  weekly  paper  would 
have  yielded  its  meagre  space  for  the  chronicling  of  Ei- 
leen Trench's  engagement,  had  that  important  fact  been 
divulged  at  home.  There  were  other,  more  momentous 
things  going  on.  The  entire  front  page  of  each  issue 
was  plastered  with  the  Stone  sensation,  which  grew  by 
melodramatic  leaps  to  something  like  an  international 
affair.  Fournier  Stone  had  been  captured  in  Montreal, 
had  broken  from  his  captor  and  leaped  into  the  river. 
At  first  it  was  thought  that  he  had  been  drowned;  but  he 
was  an  agile  swimmer,  and  it  was  reported  that  a  man  an- 
swering his  description  had  been  seen  near  Longueuil, 
an  hour  or  two  after  his  escape. 

From  Mrs.  Stone's  darkened  bedroom  came  bulletins 
of  one  collapse  after  another.  The  news  that  her  darling 
had  perished  in  the  treacherous  waters  beneath  the  Vic- 
toria bridge  affected  her  so  profoundly  that  the  physi- 
cian resorted  to  nitroglycerine  injections  to  restore  her. 
Lavinia  read  the  accounts  with  emotions  that  surged 
from  exultation  to  a  species  of  envy.  The  part  she  had 
been  called  upon  to  play  was  such  a  drab  one,  that  Lettie 
Stone's  colourful  role  stung  her.  To  ease  her  mind,  she 
fell  back  on  one  passage  of  Scripture  after  another.  She 
might  have  known  all  along  that  the  marriage  would 
end  in  something  like  this.  It  was  right  that  it  should 
end  this  way  .  .  .  right  that  an  immoral,  unprincipled 
woman  should  suffer.  And  Calvin?  No  doubt  he  was 

03 


94  Indian  Summer 

suffering,  too.  But  what  was  the  good  of  going  over 
that  ground — ground  that  she  had  long  since  stripped 
bare  of  every  sprig  of  comfort  or  misery? 

At  last  came  the  startling  denouement.  Mrs.  Calvin 
Stone  was  dead.  There  had  been  a  simple  private  fun- 
eral— attended  by  everybody  in  Bromfield.  That  night 
Fournier  had  slipped  stealthily  into  town,  and  out  to  the 
cemetery,  where  he  had  ended  his  life  on  his  mother's 
grave.  The  account  of  the  double  tragedy  was  not  news 
to  Lavinia.  Ellen  Larimore  had  sent  a  telegram  .  .  . 
just  why,  it  was  difficult  to  explain.  The  message  came 
Sunday  morning,  while  David  and  the  girls  were  at 
church  and  Lary  was  at  the  office  getting  out  some  rush 
specifications.  It  conveyed  only  the  bare  information 
that  Fournier  Stone  had  shot  himself,  the  night  after  his 
mother's  funeral. 

"Dead  .  .  .  Calvin  free!"  the  woman  muttered,  star- 
ing in  a  daze  at  the  words.  And,  after  a  moment  of 
strangling  emotion:  "But  what  difference  does  it  make 
— now?  I  can't  be  there  to  see  it.  I  wouldn't  go,  if  I 
could" 

At  this  juncture  Lavinia's  thoughts  took  an  unexpected 
turn.  She  was  always  thinking  things  she  had  no  inten- 
tion of  harbouring  within  her  consciousness — as  if  she 
had  a  whole  cellar  full  of  ideas  she  did  not  know  she  pos- 
sessed. The  one  that  came  up  to  her  now  nauseated  her. 
To  see  Calvin  weeping  over  the  body  of  his  dead  wife ! 
Oh,  the  insolent  superiority  of  the  dead!  You  have  no 
words  with  which  to  confront  them.  All  their  failings, 
all  their  sins  are  lifted  above  your  most  virtuous  attack. 
It  would  be  like  this  if  David  should  die,  and  she  could 
no  longer  upbraid  him.  No,  it  was  better  for  people  to 
go  on  living.  You  could  at  least  speak  your  mind,  with- 
out galling  self-reproach. 


Eyes  Turned  Homeward  95 

II 

Lavinia  was  determined  to  put  Calvin  Stone  definitely 
and  permanently  from  her  thought.  He  had  been  amply 
punished  for  his  monstrous  treatment  of  her.  The  in- 
cident was  closed,  and  at  last  she  could  have  peace.  And 
then  something  came  to  divert  all  her  thinking  into  a 
channel  that  must  have  been  present  in  the  dark  valley 
of  her  being  all  the  while — unrecognized,  because  the 
need  for  it  had  been  so  hazily  remote.  A  story — one  of 
Larimore's  foolish  stories.  She  seldom  listened  to' 
them;  but  this  one  she  could  not  escape.  Eileen  had 
gone  home  with  Hal  Marksley  and  had  met  his  sister. 
It  was  Wednesday,  and  the  outcome  of  the  Stone  im- 
broglio was  still  locked  in  her  heart,  the  telegram  having 
been  burned  in  the  kitchen  range,  Sunday  morning,  while 
Drusilla  was  on  the  second  floor,  doing  up  the  bedrooms. 

After  dinner  the  Trench  family  had  gravitated,  one  by 
one,  to  Mrs.  Ascott's  summer  house.  David  was  there, 
laughing  boyishly  at  something  Eileen  was  telling. 
What  were  they  talking  about?  Lavinia's  sharp  ears 
caught  a  sentence  now  and  then.  It  was  not  her  wont  to 
be  out  of  things,  the  things  that  concerned  her  family. 
Her  tenant  seldom  invited  her — specifically.  But  then 
she  never  invited  Mrs.  Ascott,  either.  Going  to  the 
pantry,  she  filled  a  plate  with  raisin  muffins,  from  the 
afternoon's  baking.  Eileen  would  approach  that  shrine, 
armed  with  a  sensational  story;  but  her  mother  carried 
breakfast  rolls. 

Ill 

When  Nanny  had  taken  the  plate  into  the  house,  Ju- 
dith made  room  for  Mrs.  Trench  on  the  settle  at  her 
side.  David  leaned  against  the  solid  beam  that  he  had 
set,  seven  years  ago,  to  support  the  arch  of  the  doorway. 


96  Indian  Summer 

His  blue  eyes  were  full  of  unwonted  content.  Theo- 
dora was  perched  on  the  afternoon  tea  table,  folded  now 
to  look  like  a  packing  case,  steadying  herself  by  a  brown 
hand  on  her  father's  arm.  Eileen  was  on  the  other 
bench  with  Lary.  She  resumed  the  narrative  that  had 
been  interrupted  by  her  mother's  arrival : 

"Yes,  he's  the  most  unspeakable  beast  I  ever  saw. 
Oh,  by-the-way,  mamma,  I  was  telling  them  about  meet- 
ing Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nims,  this  afternoon.  Kitten  and 
Hal  and  I  had  to  go  over  to  the  house  to  get  some  rugs 
and  things  for  the  play,  in  the  college  chapel,  and 
Adelaide  opened  the  door  for  us." 

"You  don't  mean —  How  did  she  treat  you?" 
"Oh,  all  right.  She  didn't  know  me  from  anybody 
else.  .  .  .  But  she's  coming  to  help  coach  us,  the  night 
of  dress  rehearsal.  Mrs.  Henderson  said,  in  her  talk, 
that  most  of  the  charm  in  that  Sargent  portrait  was  the 
technique — brush  work  and  colour  arrangement.  But 
Adelaide  Nims  doesn't  need  Johnny  Sargent  or  any  other 
artist  to  tell  her  how  to  colour  up.  She  had  on  an  em- 
broidered Chinese  robe — the  kind  the  Mandarin  women 
wear  in  the  house — pinkish  tan,  with  a  wide  band  of  blue 
around  the  sleeves  and  neck — the  kind  of  blue  that  fairly 
made  her  hair  flame.  I  wanted  to  eat  her,  she  was  so 
beautiful.  And  just  then  I  got  a  glimpse  of  her  husband, 
through  the  window.  He  was  sprawled  all  over  a  lawn 
bench  that  was  built  to  hold  three  decent-sized  people, 
and  his  stomach  came  out  like  the  side  of  the  rain  barrel. 
I  was  trying  to  get  a  good  look  at  his  face,  when  he  be- 
gan to  yawn — you  know,  the  kind  of  a  yawn  that  ate  up 
all  the  rest  of  his  features.  I  wanted  to  giggle  ...  or 
scream!  And  when  he  finally  came  into  the  house,  and 
Kitten  and  I  met  him,  I  couldn't  think  of  a  thing  but  that 
awful  cavern  inside  his  mouth.  Gee!  I'd  hate  to  have 


Eyes  Turned  Homeward  97 

to  live  with  a  man  who  looks  like  a  hogshead,  split  down 
the  middle,  and  an  Edam  cheese  for  a  head — and  no  neck 
at  all." 

"I  didn't  suppose  the  nobility  looked  like  that,"  Mrs. 
Trench  snapped. 

"Humph!  He's  only  a  younger  son — and  nine  broth- 
ers and  nephews  between  him  and  a  handle  to  his  name. 
Adelaide  must  have  been  in  an  awful  tight  pinch  to  have 
married  him,  money  or  no  money." 

"He  may  not  have  been  so  stout  when  he  courted  her," 
David  ventured.  "When  your  mother  married  me,  no 
one  would  have  thought  of  calling  me  her  'better  three- 
quarters' — and  look  at  us  now." 

''Other  three-quarters,"  Lavinia  corrected.  "I  never 
could  see  the  justice  in  calling  a  man  his  wife's  'better' 
half." 

"There's  historical  warrant  for  your  objection, 
mamma,"  Lary  said,  hoping  to  avert  the  revelation  his 
mother  was  all  too  prone  to  make — her  callous  contempt 
for  David  in  particular  and  men  as  a  class. 

"You  don't  mean  the  tiresome  old  story  of  Adam  and 
the  rib,"  Eileen  demurred. 

"Nothing  like  that.  I  found  the  story  in  some  elective 
Greek  we  were  reading,  my  third  year  in  college.  And 
as  you  describe  this  Mr.  Nims,  he  seems  to  fit  the  original 
model.  Seven  of  us  were  selected  to  translate  the  Sym- 
posium of  Plato,  and  I  had  the  story  Aristophanes  was 
said  to  have  told  at  that  memorable  banquet.  It  was  in 
response  to  the  toast,  'The  Origin  of  Love.'  As  the 
gods  planned  the  world,  there  was  no  such  thing  as  love. 
But  they  had  created  a  race  of  terribly  efficient  mortals — 
hermaphroditic  beings,  man  and  woman  in  one  body, 
their  faces  looking  in  opposite  directions.  They  had 
four  legs  and  a  double  pair  of  arms,  and  when  they 


98  Indian  Summer 

wanted  to  go  somewhere  in  a  hurry,  they  rolled  over  and 
over,  like  an  exaggerated  cart  wheel,  touching  all  their 
hands  and  feet  to  the  ground  in  succession.  They  could 
see  what  was  going  on  behind  them,  and  could  throw 
missiles  in  two  directions  at  the  same  time. 

"As  long  as  they  didn't  realize  their  advantage,  it 
was  all  right.  But  one  day  a  leader  was  born  among 
them.  I  suspect  it  was  the  female  half  of  him  who  dis- 
covered that  they  were  superior  to  the  gods.  If  they 
went  about  it  right,  they  could  capture  Olympus,  and  send 
the  gods  to  earth  to  toil  and  offer  sacrifices.  The  one 
thing  the  gods  cared  about  was  having  their  vanity  fed, 
.by  the  smoke  from  countless  altars.  It  was  for  this 
service  that  man  was  created,  in  the  beginning.  So, 
when  it  was  reported  on  Mount  Olympus  that  mortals 
aspired  to  be  gods,  Zeus  conceived  a  way  to  avert  the  dis- 
aster, and  at  the  same  time  have  twice  as  many  creatures 
on  earth  to  offer  sacrifices. 

"He  made  a  great  feast,  and  invited  all  the  insolent 
race  of  man.  And  when  he  had  them  at  his  mercy,  so 
that  they  couldn't  escape,  he  had  them  brought  to  him, 
one  at  a  time,  and  cleft  them  in  two,  vertically,  so 
that  they  could  look  only  in  one  direction,  and  run  on 
only  two  feet — " 

"O-wee-woo!"  Theodora  squirmed.  "Didn't  they 
bleed  .  .  .  terribly?" 

"Hush,  Theo,  it's  only  a  ,story,"  Mrs.  Trench  ex- 
claimed, irritably. 

"And  that's  how  a  man  and  his  other  half  came  to  be 
separated,"  David  said,  drawing  Theodora  to  him  and 
stroking  her  pain-puckered  brow. 

"Yes,  the  gods  thought  they  had  destroyed  man,  when 
they  cleft  him  in  two,"  Lary  went  on,  his  brown  eyes 
shining.  "But  in  that  act  of  ruthlessness  they  sowed  the 


Eyes  Turned  Homeward  99 

seeds  of  their  own  destruction.  When  they  hurled  the 
mutilated  creatures  out  of  Paradise,  most  of  the  halves 
became  separated.  Then  began  the  endless  search  for 
their  other  halves.  The  men  realized  that  they  couldn't 
live  up  to  their  full  capacity,  with  the  feminine  side  of 
themselves  gone.  And  when  they  did  find  each  other, 
they  experienced  a  rapture  that  surpassed  the  highest 
emotional  possibility  of  the  immortals.  That  thrill  was 
love.  The  gods  heard  about  it,  and  condescended  to 
mate  with  mortals,  in  the  hope  of  experiencing  the  thrill. 
But  it  was  useless.  They  had  not  been  separated  from 
their  other  halves." 

"But  how  did  they  sow  the  seeds  of  their  own  destruc- 
tion?" Judith  asked. 

"It's  the  old  story  of  the  apple  in  the  Garden  of  Eden. 
The  thing  they  couldn't  get  became  the  ultimate  desidera- 
tum. They  devoted  all  their  energy  to  the  quest  of  love. 
They  deserted  all  their  old  godlike  pursuits — and  in  the 
end,  the  Greek  deities  crumbled  and  were  destroyed  by 
the  more  vigorous  gods  of  the  barbarians." 

Theodora  pondered  the  tale.  She  could  not  be  satis- 
fied by  the  application  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nims.  The  tub- 
like  man,  who  was  far  more  tublike  in  her  imagination 
than  Eileen's  exaggerated  description  should  have  war- 
ranted, was  undoubtedly  the  man  who  was  married  to 
Hal's  sister.  But  Mrs.  Nims  was  thin.  And  he  was 
her  second  husband.  Manifestly  something  was  wrong. 

"But  Lary,  suppose  when  those  men  tried  to  find  their 
other  halves,  they  couldn't.  .  .  .  Their  right  halves  had 
died,  or  had  got  tired  of  waiting  and  had  gone  off  with 
some  one  else.  .  .  ." 

"There  wouldn't  be  any  thrill  of  love,  and  the  man 
couldn't  do  his  best,  because  he  lacked  the  right  person 
to  urge  him  on,"  David  told  her. 


ioo  Indian  Summer 

"Humph!"  this  from  Eileen,  "I  guess  the  woman 
would  be  in  as  bad  a  fix  as  the  man.  Poor  Adelaide 
Nims  has  had  two  tries  at  her  other  half,  and  missed  it 
both  times.  She's  terribly  unhappy,  for  all  that  she  puts 
up  such  a  good  front.  Lady  Judith,  don't  you  think  she 
ought  to  keep  on  trying  till  she  does  find  the  right  one? 
Or  is  there  a  right  one  for  all  of  us?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  unless  we  rush  off  into  an  alliance  that  pre- 
vents us  from  recognizing  our  true  mate,"  Mrs.  Ascott 
said  pointedly. 

The  girl  flushed.  The  shaft  had  gone  home.  She 
shifted  her  gaze  from  the  clear  gray  eyes  .  .  .  and  sur- 
prised an  inexplicable  expression  on  her  mother's  face. 

IV 

Lavinia  had  listened,  without  interest,  to  the  story. 
But  the  application — she  had  been  brought  up  on  stories 
with  a  Moral  at  the  end.  "Unless  we  rush  off  into  an 
alliance.  .  .  ."  Her  face  grew  hard,  a  yellow  pallor 
spreading  from  neck  to  brow.  That  was  what  she  had 
done.  That  was  what  Calvin  had  done.  It  was  his 
fault,  not  hers,  that  she  had  erred.  She  ignored  the 
years  of  waiting,  before  Calvin  had  known  Lettie.  And 
those  two  had  been  mismated,  had  lived  apart  most  of 
the  time,  the  first  few  years  of  their  married  life,  had 
quarreled  violently  when  they  were  together.  There 
must  have  been  a  right  partner  for  Calvin.  She  choked 
with  emotion  as  she  realized — she  had  never  been  sure 
of  it,  in  all  those  years — that  Lettie  was  not  the  right 
one.  She  would  like  to  see  Calvin  Stone  again,  now  that 
it  was  all  over.  But  what  was  the  use?  There  was 
David,  forty-eight,  and  ridiculously  healthy.  That  night 
she  lay  awake,  into  the  gray  of  dawn,  thinking,  think- 
ing. .  .  . 


XIV     A  Broken  Axle 


Late  Thursday  afternoon  Mrs.  Trench  crossed  the 
lawn  with  tottering  steps.  She  looked  incredibly  old,  with 
the  bloodless  lips  and  the  greenish  pallor  of  her  sunken 
cheeks.  "No  wonder  her  children  are  temperamental," 
Judith  thought,  remembering  the  crispness  of  her  step 
and  the  full  flush  of  her  dark  skin  as  she  crossed  that 
same  stretch  of  grass  the  previous  evening,  the  plate  of 
rolls  in  her  hand.  She  came  now  with  no  offering  of  good 
will.  There  was  set  purpose  in  her  eyes.  And  her 
mouth  .  .  .  Judith  wondered  how  she  could  have 
thought  Eileen's  mouth  looked  like  that.  A  sleepless 
night  and  the  bald  revelation  of  Calvin  Stone's  sorrow 
— discussed  at  the  luncheon  table  as  the  Bromfield  paper 
was  handed  about — had  reduced  her  resistive  power  to 
its  lowest  point.  When  her  life  stream  was  full,  she  had 
little  difficulty  concealing  the  slimy  bed  of  her  being. 
But  now,  with  all  her  animation  ebbed  away,  she  groped 
within  her  own  turbid  depths,  blinded  by  resentment  and 
self-pity  until  even  prudence  forsook  her.  In  any  other 
state  of  mind,  she  would  not  have  flung  down  the  gauntlet 
to  the  one  woman  on  whom  she  must  depend  for  the 
furthering  of  her  plans. 

"Mrs.  Ascott,  would  you  mind  going  inside?  I  can't 
stand  this  sunshine.  I  never  could  see  why  David  put 
a  door  in  the  west  side  of  this  summer  house,  where  the 

101 


102  Indian  Summer 

afternoon  sun  can  shine  right  in  your  face.  But  David 
always  bungles  things." 

"You  are  ill.     I  am  so  sorry." 

"It's  nothing.  I'll  be  myself  after  I've  had  a  night's 
rest.  The  fact  is,  I  want  to  have  a  plain  talk  with  you." 
Judith  led  the  way  to  the  library.  With  rigid  lips.,  that 
marred  her  usual  sharp  enunciation,  she  began  bluntly. 
"I  feel  that  it's  my  Christian  duty  to  tell  you  some  nasty 
truths  about  that  Mrs.  Nims." 

"Village  gossip.  I'm  sure,  Mrs.  Trench,  I'm  not  in 
the  least  interested." 

An  ugly  purplish  red  crept  along  Lavinia's  corded 
neck  and  up  over  the  cheeks  to  the  line  of  straight  black 
hair. 

"But  you  and  Eileen  are  planning  all  sorts  of  intimacy 
— musical  trio  with  you  at  the  piano,  playing  accompani- 
ments for  the  violin  and  'cello — and  Larimore  and  his 
father  are  terribly  vexed.  Of  course  you  couldn't  be 
expected  to  know  anything  about  the  woman  .  .  .  being 
a  newcomer  in  the  town.  And  you  couldn't  know  how 
important  it  is  to  me,  right  now,  not  to  have  my  husband 
displeased." 

It  transpired  that  Eileen  had  talked  too  much,  at  break- 
fast, that  morning  .  .  .  too  many  details  of  her  call  at 
the  Marksleys'  home,  the  play  the  Dramatic  Club  was 
putting  on,  for  the  benefit  of  the  laboratory  fund,  in 
which  Hal  Marksley  had  to  kiss  her,  beneath  the  pale 
glow  of  a  marvellously  devised  stage  moon. 

"The  trio  was  only  a  tentative  suggestion.  If  Mr. 
Trench—" 

"It  isn't  so  much  his  opposition  as  Larimore's.  He 
never  had  any  use  for  the  Marksley  family — and  this  big 
competition  coming  on.  Villa  residence,  keeper's  lodge, 
garage  and  barns.  It  will  mean  a  great  deal  to  my  son 


A  Broken  Axle  103 

to  win  that  commission.  And  the  contract  for  the  con- 
struction will  be  the  biggest  thing  Mr.  Trench  has  had 
since  he  put  up  the  new  Science  Hall. 

"I  should  think  being  kind  to  Mrs.  Nims  would  be  a 
help  rather  than  a  hindrance,"  Mrs.  Ascott  said,  per- 
plexed. 

"It  would,  if  I  had  reasonable  men  to  deal  with.  The 
fact  is — if  I  must  speak  plainly — young  Mr.  Marksley  is 
very  much  in  love  with  Eileen.  I  wouldn't  have  anything 
come  between  them  for  the  world.  You  are  a  married 
woman.  You  ought  to  know  Eileen's  type.  She  isn't 
the  least  bit  like  me.  If  she  resembles  any  of  my  family, 
it  is  my  sister  Isabel — and  we  were  thankful  to  get  her 
safely  married  at  seventeen." 

"But  Mr.  Marksley,  they  told  me,  is  going  to  Pratt 
when  he  is  graduated  from  the  college,  here.  It  will  be 
four  or  five  years  before — " 

"Some  more  of  Eileen's  foolishness.  What  use  has  he 
for  more  education — with  all  that,  money?  And  she 
knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  he  can  go  into  business  with 
his  brother  Alfred,  in  St.  Louis,  the  day  after  commence- 
ment. He  doesn't  have  to  depend  on  his  father,  who 
detests  him.  I  suppose  Eileen  has  told  you  that  fact, 
too." 

Mrs.  Ascott  shook  her  head,  irritation  mounting  to 
anger,  as  her  caller's  tone  divested  itself  of  that  modicum 
of  reserve  that  had  been  the  inculcated  habit  of  years. 
In  all  her  experience  she  had  never  met  a  woman  like 
Lavinia  Trench.  From  their  second  meeting,  there  had 
been  ain  undercurrent  of  hostility,  which  Lavinia  was  at 
great  pains  to  subdue  or  conceal.  A  rich  woman  was  a 
person  to  be  envied  .  .  .  and  conciliated.  In  her  nor- 
mal state  she  would  not  have  jeopardized  the  fragile 
bond  of  surface  friendship  that  bound  them. 


104  Indian  Summer 

II 

Not  that  the  interview  reached  the  disgusting  level  of 
a  quarrel.  Yet  Judith  was  betrayed  into  the  fatal  error 
of  attempting  to  reason  with  a  woman  whose  mental 
processes  had  never  recognized  the  inevitable  link  between 
cause  and  effect.  She  did  not  know  how  to  deal  with  the 
mind  that  leaped  from  one  vantage  point  to  another,  with 
all  the  nimbleness  and  none  of  the  objectivity  of  a  circus 
acrobat.  Button  had  once  said  of  Mrs.  Trench:  "You 
can't  nail  that  woman  down.  When  you  trap  her 
square,  on  her  own  proposition — she's  over  yonder,  on 
an  entirely  different  subject,  crowing  over  you.  If  she 
can't  make  her  point,  she  talks  about  something  ese." 
But  Judith  gave  little  heed  to  Dutton's  mumblings. 

The  one  thing  Mrs.  Trench  had  made  unequivocally 
plain  was  that  Larimore  and  his  father  must  not  be  an- 
tagonized. This  could  be  accomplished  only  by  keeping 
Eileen's  fondness  for  Hal  in  the  background,  and  avoid- 
ing any  public  contact  with  his  highly  immoral  sister.  It 
was  in  connection  with  Mrs.  Nims  that  Judith  blundered. 
She  could  not  believe  that  either  David  or  Larimore 
Trench  would  cast  a  stone  at  the  woman  who  had  sinned 
and  was  unhappy  because  of  her  sin. 

"You  mean  Mary  Magdalene,  and  all  that?  Well,  I 
don't  believe  Christ  expects  me  to  associate  with  the 
woman  who  ran  away  from  two  husbands — travelled  with 
the  first  one  for  three  weeks  before  they  were  married  at 
all.  There's  no  reforming  a  woman  like  Adelaide 
Marksley.  She's  bad,  through  and  through." 

"There,  may  have  been  extenuating  circumstances. 
What  do  you  and  I  know  about  her  inside  life?  Until  we 
have  been  tempted,  as  she  was,  we  have  no  moral  right  to 
set  up  our  code — " 


A  Broken  Axle  105 

"You  think  I  have  never  been  tempted?  I  could  tell 
you  a  story  ...  if  I  was  a-mind  to.  It  was  only  my 
sense  of  honour  and  duty.  And  that  ought  to  be  enough 
for  Adelaide  Nims  or  any  other  woman." 

"She  may  not  have  had  a  very  clear  conception  of  the 
meaning  of  'honour'  and  'duty.'  Do  you  think  those 
terms  mean  the  same  thing  to  all  women?  Do  they  mean 
the  same  thing  to  any  woman,  at  all  times?  You  don't 
know  anything  about  the  inner  life  of  the  girl  who  grows 
up  in  a  loveless  home,  or  is  trapped  in  a  childless  home  of 
her  own,  with  a  man  who  doesn't  love  her.  Your  life 
has  been  crowded  with  responsibility  and  affection.  You 
have  a  husband  whose  devotion  to  you  is  the  most 
beautiful — " 

"You  think  David  is  a  paragon.  You  haven't  had  to 
live  with  him  for  almost  twenty-eight  years.  You  haven't 
had  to  drive  him,  every  step  he  took,  for  fear  he  would 
sit  down  on  you,  and  let  the  family  starve.  And  as  for 
the  children  .  .  .  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  it? 
Why — it  was  when  Isabel  was  so  sick  that — that  the  min- 
ister kept  calling  and  calling.  All  the  women  in  the 
church  were  crazy  about  him.  I  never  dreamt  he  was  in 
love  with  me  till  the  night  before  the  baby  died.  But  I 
showed  him  his  place,  quick  enough,  when  he  told  me  he 
could  see  that  David  didn't  understand  or  appreciate 
me."  Her  eyes  gleamed  with  pride,  as  if  she  would  have 
gloated :  "There !  You  didn't  know  I  had  been  tempted — 
and  by  the  minister,  too  !" 

"For  all  that,  Mrs.  Trench,  you  can't  draw  the  line 
between  the  woman  who  sins  and  the  one  who  is  saved 
from  sinning  by  some  fortuitous  accident.  Your  baby 
died,  the  next  day.  If  she  had  lived  .  .  .  and  you  had 
seized  the  chance  for  the  happiness  you  had  missed,  I 
would  have  no  condemnation  for  you.  I  know.  I  was 


106  Indian  Summer 

almost  in  sight  of  that  treacherous  snare — when  the  axle 
of  our  motor  car  broke,  and  my  father  overtook  us  and 
— brought  me  to  my  senses.  We  were  within  a  mile  of 
the  pier  where  his  yacht  was  anchored — the  man  who  was 
as  unhappy  in  his  loveless  home  as  I  was  in  mine.  We 
were  going  to  Italy,  to  hunt  for  what  we  both  had  missed. 
My  husband  had  gone  to  Egypt  with  another  woman.  I 
told  myself  that  my  marriage  vow  was  an  empty  mock- 
ery. .  .  ."  She  stopped,  a  sickening  wave  of  self-dis- 
gust overwhelming  her.  Why  had  she  bared  her  soul  to 
this  woman? 

Lavinia?  She  made  no  effort  to  conceal  her  horror. 
So  this  was  why  Mrs.  Ascott  did  not  wear  mourning! 

"And  he,  your  husband — divorced  you?" 

"No,  I  divorced  him.  In  New  York  there  is  only  one 
cause  for  divorce,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  I  had  com- 
mitted no  offence.  Mrs.  Nims,  with  her  bringing  up — 
with  the  family  environment  that  surrounds  her  and  her 
brother — " 

"Oh,  with  men  it  is  different.  You  don't  expect  mo- 
rality in  them.  David  says  that  Hal  is  fast.  That's  at 
the  bottom  of  the  whole  trouble.  I  wish  I  hadn't  said 
anything  about  the  affair.  I  might  have  known  you 
wouldn't  see  it  as  I  do.  But  then,  I  hadn't  suspect- 
ed— "  She  checked  herself.  There  were  some  things 
Lavinia  wouldn't  say,  even  when  she  was  indignant  to  the 
core. 

Ill 

When  she  went  home,  a  few  minutes  later,  she  resolved 
to  padlock  the  wicket  gate — to  secure  it  with  hammer  and 
nails,  if  need  be.  She  would  not  have  her  family  sub- 
jected to  such  an  influence.  Eileen  was  completely  be- 
witched. It  was  "Mrs.  Ascott  this"  and  "Lady  Judith 
that"  from  morning  till  night.  Theo  was  even  worse. 


A  Broken  Axle  107 

David  was  getting  to  look  like  a  boy,  since  he  had  been 
chatting  across  the  wall  with  that  designing  woman. 
And  Larimore !  He  was  already  in  her  clutches.  How 
could  a  mother  have  been  so  blind?  If  the  gate  were 
closed,  with  obvious  intent,  Mrs.  Ascott  would  take  the 
hint,  and  move  away. 

Then  she  remembered  the  months  that  Vine  Cottage 
had  stood  idle.  It  was  a  poor  time  to  rent  a  furnished 
cottage,  with  vacation  coming  on,  and  ever  so  many  of 
the  faculty  houses  eager  to  be  leased  for  the  summer 
months.  Besides  .  .  .  Mrs.  Ascott  had  her  redeeming 
points.  She  was  never  at  a  loss  which  forks  to  put  on  the 
table,  and  how  to  add  that  chic  effect  to  a  costume.  If 
Eileen  were  to  shine  as  Mrs.  Henry  Marksley,  Junior, 
she  would  need  much  coaching.  And,  after  all,  what  had 
Mrs.  Ascott  done?  She  might  have  gone  to  Italy  in  a 
yacht.  A  flight  in  a  motor  car — pursuit — a  broken  axle 
— capture !  There  had  never  been  anything  like  that  in 
Lavinia  Trench's  life.  Then,  too,  her  husband  had  de- 
serted her  .  .  .  had  run  away  with  another  woman.  It 
was  always,  in  these  cases,  "running."  One  could  not 
conceive  of  a  leisurely  departure  from  the  confines  of  the 
moral  code.  No  doubt  Mr.  Ascott  had  abused  her. 
Men  usually  did,  when  they  were  casting  amorous  eyes 
at  some  one  else.  That  made  a  different  case  of  it.  Her 
father  had  taken  her  back.  It  could  not  have  resulted  in 
a  public  scandal.  Probably  the  facts  never  leaked  out. 
Mrs.  Ascott  had  certainly  been  received  by  the  best  so- 
ciety in  New  York  and  Pelham  before  coming  to  Spring- 
dale. 

Moreover  .  .  .  this  thing  of  nailing  up  gates  did  not 
always  turn  out  the  way  one  expected.  She  had  nailed 
up  one  gate  in  her  life  that  she  would  have  given  the 
whole  world  to  open.  And  this  was  such  a  friendly 


io8  Indian  Summer 

little  gate.  Who  could  tell  but  that  some  day  she,  Vine 
— the  self-sufficient — might  need  a  friend?  Mrs.  Ascott 
was — potent  phrase —  "a  woman  of  the  world."  She 
made  the  women  of  Springdale  look  pitifully  gauche. 
It  was  not  a  bad  idea  to  have  such  a  woman  as  a  neigh- 
bour. Not  too  much  intimacy.  She  would  look  to  that. 
She  might  mention.  .  .  .  But  what  was  there  to  tell? 
Mrs.  Ascott  had  not  sinned,  as  Adelaide  Marksley  had. 
Herein  lay  the  crux  of  the  whole  matter.  Still  .  .  .  she 
was  a  dangerous  woman.  Larimore  must  be  watched. 


XV     Masked  Benefaction 


The  day  following  her  illuminating  talk  with  her  non- 
conformist neighbour,  Mrs.  Trench  remained  in  bed. 
To  some  women  a  headache  is  a  godsend.  It  obviates 
the  necessity  for  explanation.  When  she  emerged  from 
the  darkened  room,  she  brought  with  her  all  the  marks  of 
physical  illness,  to  account  for  the  rasped  state  of  her 
nerves;  but  to  her  son,  at  least,  the  evidence  was  not  con- 
vincing. He  had  witnessed  too  many  narrow  Jbrushes  with 
Death,  when  Lavinia  had  something  important  to  attain 
or  conceal.  Had  she  waited,  she  might  have  seized  on 
a  ready-made  cause  for  a  period  of  bad  humour  .  .  .  the 
outcome  of  the  Marksley  building  competition.  On  Sat- 
urday afternoon  the  contest  was  settled,  and  Larimore 
Trench  was  not  the  winner.  The  prize  had  gone  to  a 
Chicago  architect.  That  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  Mrs. 
Marksley  wrote  Lary  a  letter,  informing  him  that  his 
plans  were  too  stiff  and  old-fashioned;  but  that  she  would 
like  to  buy  from  him  the  design  for  the  cow  barn,  which 
was  better  in  some  respects  than  the  one  the  up-to-date 
architect  had  made. 

"You  remember,  Larimore,  that  was  what  I  said,  all 
along."  Lavinia's  voice  cut  both  ways.  "And  if  you 
had  gone  on,  the  way  you  did  the  cow  barn  ...  I  don't 
believe  you  have  forgotten  that  you  put  the  ornament  on 
the  barn,  to  please  me." 

109 


no  Indian  Summer 

"No,  I  haven't  forgotten.  I  designed  the  house  for 
people,  not  for  cows." 

II 

Judith  heard  about  it,  in  a  burst  o-f  fierce  indignation, 
from  Theodora.  It  was  Monday,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  her  home  was  still  so  forbidding  that  she  dreaded  to 
enter  the  house,  when  she  came  from  school.  Mrs.  As- 
cott  might  want  her  to  do  an  errand,  she  argued.  At 
least,  it  would  do  no  harm  to  ask.  But  Mrs.  Ascott  did 
not  want  an  errand.  She  wanted  the  very  information 
Theo  was  only  too  eager  to  offer.  From  Eileen  she  had 
had  a  shaft  of  unpleasant  illumination:  "Lary  has 
crawled  in  his  hole  and  pulled  the  hole  in  after  him." 
There  was  no  iron  in  his  nature,  nothing  with  which  to 
fend  himself  against  such  clumsy  insults.  But  Theodora 
inadvertently  revealed  the  deep  cause  of  his  hurt.  It 
was  not  the  Marksleys,  but  his  mother's  attitude,  that 
offended  him. 

"To  think,  Lady  Judith,  of  those  stupid  Marksley 
judges,  turning  down  all  Lary's  beautiful  plans  in  favour 
of-r"  She  gasped,  her  cheeks  burning.  "I  wish  you 
could  see  the  front  elevation  of  the  house.  It  looks  for 
all  the  world  like  a  frumpy  old  woman.  There's  a  gable 
that  reminds  you  of  a  poke  bonnet,  and  under  the  gable 
are  two  round  windows  .  .  .  like  staring  eyes.  If  I'd 
gone  that  far,  I  would  have  had  the  nerve  to  put  in  a  nose 
and  a  mouth.  But,  no,  he  has  a  door  between  those  win- 
dows, opening  out  on  a  ledge.  You  don't  have  a  third 
story  door  opening  on  a  ledge,  unless  you  want  some  one 
to  walk  out  there,  in  the  dark,  and  get  his  neck  broken. 
It  ought  to  have  been  a  balcony.  Hm-m-m,  I  guess  he 
used  up  all  the  balconies  the  law  allows.  He  has  them  at 
both  sides  .  .  .  like  the  big  hips  that  were  in  style  when 


Masked  Benefaction  in 

mamma  was  a  bride-  And  a  coat  of  arms  above  the 
door — the  Marksleys  never  had  a  coat  of  arms." 
"How  did  you  come  to  see  the  plans,  Theo?" 
"Hal  smuggled  them  over,  last  night,  to  show  mamma 
why  Lary  missed  out.  And  she  didn't  do  a  thing  but 
roast  him  again,  this  morning  .  .  .  because  they  took  the 
cow  barn,  that  he  did  to  please  her,  and  cut  out  the 
classical  part,  that  he  did  to  please  himself.  That  wasn't 
the  only  ruction  we  had  at  breakfast.  But  there's  no 
living  with  my  mother,  these  days.  Papa  said  he 
wouldn't  figure  on  the  contract — after  the  way  they 
treated  Lary.  And  she  nearly  raised  the  roof.  I  guess 
my  daddy'll  put  in  a  bid,  all  right." 

Ill 

More  than  once,  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  Judith's 
mind  swung  back  to  the  words :  "There's  no  living  with 
my  mother,  these  days."  Once  she  asked  Dr.  Schubert 
about  it.  Might  not  Mrs.  Trench  be,  in  fact,  a  very 
sick  woman — keeping  herself  out  of  bed  by  sheer  force  of 
her  indomitable  will?  To  which  Lavinia's  physician  re- 
plied, with  a  none  too  sympathetic  smile:  "Yes,  she  is  a 
very  sick  woman  .  .  .  but  there  is  nothing  in  my  materia 
medica  that  will  reach  her  case.  I  am  looking  for  a  re- 
turn of  her  old  trouble — a  hardening  of  the  fluid  in  the 
gall  duct.  She  has  passed  through  two  sieges  of  jaun- 
dice. And  at  another  time  the  hardening  reached  the 
stage  of  well  solidified  stones,  that  yielded  to  large  and 
persistent  doses  of  olive  oil — a  remedy  that  Mrs.  Trench 
took  as  a  peculiarly  cruel  and  unnecessary  punishment." 

"I'm  glad  to  know  it's  purely  physical,"  Mrs.  Ascott 
breathed.  "I  was  afraid  it  was  .  .  .  spleen." 

Dr.  Schubert's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Your   neighbour's    liver    trouble    originates    in    her 


H2  Indian  Summer 

spleen.  You'll  say  my  anatomy  is  defective;  but  Mrs. 
Trench's  body  is  the  victim  of  an  abnormal  mind.  To  be 
physically  unfit  always  infuriates  her.  Her  passionate 
outbursts  always  react  on  that  highly  important  gland, 
that  nature  designed  for  the  cleansing  of  the  physical 
body.  Result?  A  clogged  liver  and  a  worse  fit}  of 
temper.  Poor  David!  He  is  so  fine.  Life  ought  to 
have  given  him  velvet  instead  of  gravel." 

At  no  time  did  Lavinia  take  to  her  bed  for  more  than 
a  few  hours,  and  then  only  when  some  personal  triumph 
was  to  be  gained  by  a  direct  appeal  to  the  sympathy  of 
her  family.     If  she  harboured  a  feeling  of  ill-will  against 
her  neighbour,  it  was  in  effect  to  class  her  with  those  of 
her  own  household.     She  seldom  glanced  into  the  garden 
across  the  low  stone  barrier,  and  when  she  walked  from 
the  kitchen  stoop  to  David's  shop,  at  the  lower  end  of  her 
own  domain,  she  went  with  head  inclined,  as  if  she  were 
battling  against  a  furious  northern  gale.     Even  Theo- 
dora was  beginning  to  practice  caution,  and  a  less  amiable 
maid  than  Drusilla  would  have  given  notice,  long  ago. 
Larimore  and  his  mother  were  icily  polite,  as  was  their 
wont  when  no  other  form  of  civil  intercourse  was  pos- 
sible.    The  coldness  began  the  day  after  Mrs.  Trench 
taunted  her  son  with  his  failure  to  win  the  Marksley 
commission.     But  her  smug  "I  told  you  so"  had  little  to 
do  with  the  prolonged  siege.     Lary  would  have  forgiven 
her.     His  father  had  schooled  him  not  to  hold  her  ac- 
countable  for   the   bitter   things   she   said.     You    could 
reason  with  Theodora;  but  Lavinia.  .  .  . 

No,  the  rancour  was  not  on  this  side.  His  had  been 
the  triumph.  His  mother  had  sought  to  deliver  a  blow 
that  must  shatter  his  dearest  idol — and  the  blow  had 
missed  the  mark.  Dutton  was  wont  to  say  that  nobody 
ever  got  ahead  of  Vine  Trench.  And  in  this  case  it  was 


Masked  Benefaction  113 

Lavinia  who  defeated  herself.  So  much  the  worse  for 
Larimore,  who  had  parried  the  thrust  with  a  foreknowl- 
edge that  staggered  and  infuriated  her. 

IV 

Itxwas  the  Friday  following  the  close  of  the  competi- 
tion, and  there  were  indications  of  a  coming  thaw  in  the 
big  Colonial  house.  The  girls  had  betaken  themselves  to 
Mrs.  Ascott's  arbour,  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over.  They 
spent  every  available  minute  at  Vine  Cottage — to  make 
up  for  their  mother's  open  hostility.  And  their  mother, 
seeing  how  happy  they  were,  had  dispatched  Larimore  to 
tell  them  that  they  were  to  accompany  her  to  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson's on  some  inconsequential  errand.  When  they 
had  gone,  Lary  let  himself  wearily  down  on  the  bench  at 
Mrs.  Ascott's  side.  All  the  boyishness  was  gone  from 
his  face  and  his  eyes  were  deeply  circled  and  dull.  No 
word  passed  between  them.  The  man  reflected,  feeling 
the  warm  presence  so  close  to  him,  that  most  women 
chattered,  preached  or  philosophized  without  cessation, 
as  if  the  one  thing  demanded  of  femininity  were  an  un- 
broken flow  of  talk.  Judith  Ascott  knew  when  speech 
was  obtrusive.  She  knew,  too,  when  to  break  the  thread 
of  Lary's  morbid  musings. 

"Have  you  been  watching  that  sunset?  Theo  called 
my  attention  to  it,  before  you  came  out.  She  saw,  in  those 
clouds,  the  form  of  a  woman  with  streaming  red  curls. 
'The  red-haired  wife  of  the  sun,'  she  called  it.  Now  the 
locks  are  straight  and  almost  gray.  I  never  saw  such 
sunsets  as  you  have  here,  not  even  in  Italy." 

"I  didn't  know  what  bewitching  colour  effects  we  had, 
until  I  began  to  sit  here  on  this  bench  with  you.  My 
father  has  often  called  us  to  enjoy  a  peculiarly  beautiful 
sky  with  him.  Mamma  usually  spoils  it  by  reminding 


H4  Indian  Summer 

him  that  all  the  wealth  of  tints  is  produced  by  particles 
of  dirt  in  the  atmosphere.  She  hates  dirt,  even  when  it 
reveals  itself  in  a  form  that  doesn't  menace  her  house- 
keeping. If  she  had  gone  on  living  in  Olive  Hill,  I  be- 
lieve she  would  have  died  of  disgust." 

"Does  the  town — the  immediate  environment — make 
any  difference,  Lary?  Olive  Hill  or  Springdale,  Florence 
or  Pelham.  I  have  been  as  wretchedly  unhappy  and 
.  .  .  alone  .  „  .  in  a  crowded  Paris  cafe  as  ever  I  was 
on  the  deck  of  a  steamer,  in  mid-ocean,  when  I  wanted  to 
climb  overboard  and  end  it,  in  the  inviting  black  water." 

"You?  Judith !  I  thought  your  life  had  been  eminently 
satisfactory — barring  the  one  sorrow." 

"You  must  not  think  I  have  been  a  happy  woman.  I 
have  only  been  a  coward — shutting  the  trap  door  on  my 
failures.  But  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  myself.  I  have 
a  favour  to  ask.  Will  you — "  Her  voice  took  on  the 
quality  of  appeal. 

"What  is  it,  Judith?     A  favour?" 

She  drew  from  its  envelope  a  letter  that  had  come,  that 
afternoon,  from  her  attorney.  His  partner,  Mr.  San- 
derson, was  planning  to  build  a  home  on  Long  Island,  as 
a  wedding  gift  to  his  only  daughter.  She  knew  the  girl's 
taste.  She  wanted  to  send  the  plans  that  Mrs.  Marksley 
had  rejected.  With  such  entree  as  the  Sandersons  could 
give  him,  Larimore  Trench  ought  to  find  success  in  New 
York.  He  was  wasting  his  talents  in  Springdale. 

"It's  good  of  you,  my  dear.  But  that  kind  of  suc- 
cess— or  failure — doesn't  mean  much  to  me." 

"Then  what  would  satisfy  you,  Lary?  You  have  so 
much  ability." 

"A  little  of  the  right  kind  of  recognition — perhaps.  I 
used  to  think  I  would  experience  the  thrill  at  the  accep- 


Masked  Benefaction  115 

tance  of  a  poem  or  essay  by  some  discriminating  editor. 
The  first  time  such  an  acceptance  came,  it  left  me  numb 
and  cold  with  disappointment  ...  in  myself,  I  mean — 
my  inability  to  rise  to  the  occasion." 

"May  I  tell  you  what  you  want — what  you  demand  of 
life?"  Some  one  had  struck  a  match  in  her  darkness. 

"I — wish  you  would." 

"The  thing  you  have  attained,  Lary,  the  height  you 
have  reached  ...  is  under  your  feet.  You — you  are 
superior  to  it.  The  only  thing  that  could  satisfy  you 
is —  "  she  paused,  a  fervid  instant —  "the  unattainable." 

Larimore  Trench  turned  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

Dusk  had  settled  on  the  garden,  but  Luna's  fire  illumi- 
nated her  face.  His  body  stiffened,  and  a  dull  anguish 
smote  him. 

"Judith — God  help  me — the  unattainable  is  ... 
you!" 


Judith  Ascott  had  dreamed  of  the  time  when  love 
should  come,  not  such  love  as  Raoul  had  given  her  in  her 
romantic  girlhood.  Nor  that  other  love,  that  had 
marched  with  slow  musical  cadence  into  the  discord  of 
her  early  maturity.  It  must  be  the  masterful  love,  aus- 
tere and  tender,  a  discipline  and  a  refuge  for  her  un- 
ruly spirit.  And  now  it  was  come  .  .  .  the  only  love 
that  had  ever  mattered  to  her — the  only  man  she  had 
known  whose  very  faults  and  weaknesses  were  precious, 
and  she  had  but  one  impulse — to  fold  him  in  her  arms  and 
soothe  his  aching  spirit.  Was  this  love?  Or  mayhap 
the  thwarted  motherhood  within  her,  that  perceived  in 
Lary  and  Eileen  the  void  left  by  the  rebellious  aversion 
of  the  woman  who  was  their  mother  in  the  flesh?  A 


n6  Indian  Summer 

long  moment  she  scrutinized,  challenged  the  stranger 
that  had  arisen,  unheralded  and  undesired,  in  her  own 
heart.  Then  she  said,  resolutely: 

"No,  Lary.  I  am  the  unattainable,  only  so  lotng  as 
I  retain  the  wisdom  to  hold  myself  beyond  your  reach. 
I  should  prove  as  disappointing  as  all  the  others — the 
achievements  that  were  to  give  you  joy.  The  real  Ju- 
dith is  not  the  peerless  being  your  imagination  has  fash- 
ioned. Would  you  shrink  from  me  in  repugnance  and 
horror  if  I  should  tell  you  that  my  husband  is  not  dead?" 

"You  are  another  man's  wife?" 

"I  was.  The  divorce  was  granted  a  few  days  before 
I  came  to  Springdale,  less  than  three  months  ago." 

Lary  breathed  a  sigh  so  sharp  that  it  cut  him  like  a 
knife. 

"But  that  isn't  all.  There  was  another  man  ...  a 
man  I  fancied  I  loved.  Perhaps  I  pitied  him.  Most  of 
all,  I  pitied  myself.  I  was  more  than  willing  to  listen  to 
his  arguments.  We  would  go  to  some  place  where  no 
one  knew  us.  We  had  not  the  courage  to  brush  away  the 
falsehoods  and  conventions  of  society.  I  faced  all  the 
consequences.  It  was  no  impulse  of  youth.  I  was 
twenty-five,  and  had  been  married  almost  seven  years. 
We  both  knew  what  we  were  doing  when  I  told  him  I 
would  go." 

All  at  once  she  felt  the  man  at  her  side  shrink — invol- 
untarily, she  was  sure.  It  was  as  if  his  body  had  re- 
pulsed her,  while  his  mind  was  striving  to  be  just,  even 
magnanimous.  She  had  thought  it  all  out,  after  Theo- 
dora's revelation,  knowing  that  some  day  Lary  would 
come  to  her  with  the  pure  white  offering  of  his  love. 
And  she  had  resolved  to  tell  him  of  Herbert  Faulkner— 
not  the  fiasco,  but  the  fact  of  her  elopement.  Perhaps 
it  was  this  submerged  thought  that  had  leaped  to  the 


Masked  Benefaction  117 

surface,  in  her  talk  with  Lary's  mother.  With  him  she 
would  not  take  refuge  in  the  timely  intervention  of  a 
broken  axle  and  a  prudent  father.  Her  sin  was  as  com- 
plete as  if  she  had  carried  elopement  to  its  inevitable  con- 
clusion. He  must  hear  the  story  in  all  its  sordid  aspect. 
She  waited  for  him  to  speak.  The  clear  outline  of  his 
face  cut  the  shadow,  incisive  and  still  as  an  Egyptian 
profile  in  stone.  Not  a  quiver  of  the  lips  betrayed  his 
emotion.  Yet  Judith  Ascott  knew  she  had  dealt  him  the 
crudest  blow  of  his  life. 

"You  won't  let  it  interfere  with  our  friendship,  Lary?" 
It  was  a  stupid,  girlish  question,  such  as  Eileen  or  Kitten 
Henderson  might  have  asked.  She  felt  incredibly  young 
and  inexperienced.  When  the  man  spoke,  his  voice  was 
hoarse  with  pain. 

"I  don't  want  friendship.  I  want,  oh,  God!  the  unat- 
tainable. Judith,  it  is  not  what  you  have  done.  I  am 
not  such  a  cad  as  to  judge  you.  I  long  since  freed  myself 
from  the  tyranny  of  an  absolute  thing  called  virtue. 
That  isn't  the — the  obstacle.  At  bottom  I  am  a  selfish 
brute,  jealous  and  unreasonable.  If  there  is  another 
man  in  the  world  who  has  meant  that  much  to  you.  .  .  . 
Oh,  not  that  I  blame  him.  If  I  had  known  you  when  you 
were  another  man's  wife,  I  wouldn't  have  scrupled  to 
take  you  from  him.  You  are  my  other  self.  I  have 
known  it — from  the  moment  I  looked  into  your  eyes,  un- 
der the  little  apricot  lamp.  All  my  life  I  have  been 
heart-hungry,  wanting  something  I  couldn't  find.  Zeus 
cleft  us  apart,  in  the  beginning  of  time.  And  now  that 
you  are  here — "  He  set  his  teeth  hard  and  his  frame 
shook. 

A  long,  long  time  they  sat  silent.  The  night  settled 
about  them  and  clouds  covered  the  face  of  the  moon.  In 
the  great  house  next  door,  lights  gleamed  here  and  there 


n8  Indian  Summer 

as  the  family  came  home  and  prepared  for  bed.  Mrs. 
Trench  had  arrived  in  Hal  Marksley's  touring  car,  with 
the  girls.  Apparently  they  had  been  for  a  ride.  As  she 
went  to  the  back  door,  to  be  sure  Drusilla  had  put  out  the 
milk  bottles,  she  caught  sight  of  the  two  motionless  fig- 
ures in  the  summer  house.  She  went  to  the  sun  room  and 
turned  on  a  light  that  shimmered  faintly  through  the 
Venetian  blinds.  Judith  saw,  without  perceiving  it. 
The  whole  irony  of  life  lay  between  her  and  that  im- 
patient light. 

The  tower  clock  chimed  eleven,  when,  like  a  stage 
illumination,  the  garden  was  bathed  in  golden  glory. 
With  a  single  impulse  the  two  on  the  settee  turned  and 
looked  up  through  the  roof  of  the  summer  house,  where 
the  vines  were  thin.  And  there,  in  a  little  clear  blue  lake, 
piled  high  around  the  marge  with  mountains  of  sombre 
clouds,  the  yellow  moon  floated,  serene  and  detached. 
Lary  took  the  fevered  hands  between  his  cold,  moist 
palms. 

"Will  you  wait  for  me  ...  wait  till  I  can  search  my- 
self? Perhaps  there  is  a  man,  hidden  somewhere  in  the 
husk  of  me.  If  I  find  him  ...  I  will  come  and  lay  him 
at  your  feet." 

VI 

Mrs.  Trench  was  waiting  for  her  son.  She  had  dal- 
lied too  long  with  that  warning.  She  was  in  the  door  of 
the  sun  room  at  the  first  sound  of  his  key  in  the  lock. 

"Larimore !"  as  he  crossed  the  hall  and  made  for  the 
stairs. 

"Yes,  mamma.     Why  aren't  you  in  bed?" 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  I  don't  often  med- 
dle in  your  affairs;  but  there  come  times  when  it  is  a 
mother's  duty  to  speak.  I  wish  you  would  be  a  little 


Masked  Benefaction  119 

more  careful  in  your  associations  with  that  Mrs.  Ascott. 
She  isn't  the  pure,  virtuous  woman  we  thought  her.  She 
told  me — in  the  most  brazen  way — that  her  husband  ran 
away  to  Africa  with  another  woman.  Though  what  any- 
body would  want  to  go  to  Africa  for —  But  he  wasn't 
entirely  to  blame  for  leaving  her.  She  had  an  affair 
with  another  man.  A  low  scoundrel  who  pretended  to 
be  her  husband's  friend.  She  told  me,  without  the  least 
bit  of  shame,  that  the  only  thing  that  saved  her  from 
breaking  her  marriage  vow  was — her  father  catching  up 
with  them,  when  the  axle  of  their  automobile  broke — be- 
fore they  reached  the  yacht  that  they  were  going  to  Italy 
in  ...  alone  .  .  .  not  a  touring  party.  Alone !" 

The  words  poured  forth  in  a  disorderly  phalanx. 
Larimore  stood  patiently  waiting  until  the  need  for 
breath  stopped  her  utterance.  Then  he  said  incisively: 

"So  there  was  a  broken  axle." 

And  in  a  flash  Lavinia  knew  that  she  had  lifted  a  load 
of  doubt  and  misery  from  her  son's  mind — had  des- 
troyed, with  her  revelation,  the  barrier  that  stood  be- 
tween him  and  Judith  Ascott.  He  could  hear  the  grind- 
ing of  her  sharp  teeth  as  he  turned  and  ascended  the 
stairs. 


XVI     Coming  Storm 

i 

Mrs.  Ascott  and  Theodora  were  up  in  the  attic  search- 
ing through  trunks  and  boxes  for  a  fan  that  would  har- 
monize) with  Eileen's  graduating  dress.  Lavinia  had 
made  a  special  trip  to  St.  Louis  in  quest  of  accessories, 
and  had  returned  with  a  marvel  of  lacquer  sticks  and 
landscape,  befitting  a  mandarin's  banquet  board — and 
Lary  had  said  things  that  threw  the  family  into  a  super- 
lative state  of  stress. 

"Mamma  and  my  brother  don't  gee  worth  a  cent,"  the 
child  lamented,  peering  with  eager  eyes  into  the  shadowy 
recesses  of  a  chest  that  ought  to  yield  treasure.  "For 
the  last  month,  they're  on  each  other's  nerves  all  the 
time.  It's  mostly  Lary's  fault  ....  and  ...  I  be- 
lieve he  does  it  to  save  papa.  My  poor  daddy  can't  do  a 
blessed  thing  the  way  it  ought  to  be.  And  you  know, 
mamma  gets  good  and  mad  at  only  one  of  us  at  a  time. 
Eileen  says,  if  she  felt  that  way  about  her  people,  she'd 
clean  up  the  whole  bunch  at  once,  and  get  it  out  of  her 
'cistern.'  But  mamma's  just  naturally  economical,  and 
this  way  she  can  make  her  grouches  go  farther. 
We  thought  Drusilla  would  quit  us,  last  week,  because 
mamma  laid  her  out  so  hard — when  she  scorched  the 
bottom  layer  of  a  short  cake.  So  I  guess  it  was  a  good 
thing  Lary  said  what  he  did  about  the  fan." 

"Lightning  rod  for  Drusilla,"  Larimore  Trench  called, 
from  the  foot  of  the  narrow  stairway.  "You  don't  mind 

120 


Coming  Storm  121 

if  I  come  up?  I'd  like  to  see  the  old  attic  again."  His 
face  was  beaming  and  his  gesture  catlike  as  he  mounted 
the  steep  stairs.  "Bob  and  Syd  and  I  used  to  have  some 
wild  times  up  here.  I  wonder  if  the  ghosts  of  our  youth 
ever  disturb  your  slumbers,  sweet  Lady  Judith.  We 
were  a  rough  trio,  in  our  day." 

"You  and  Sydney  Schubert  rough!  I  wonder  what 
you  would  call  my  two  incorrigible  brothers." 

"Yes,  but  they  were,"  Theo  broke  in.  "Bob  could 
get  them  to  do  anything.  We  got  awful  quiet  at  our 
house  after  he  went  away.  Come  over  here,  Lary, 
where  you  can  get  the  breeze.  I'll  let  you  have  half  of 
my  box  to  sit  on."  With  a  wisp  of  .paper  she  wiped  the 
dust  from  the  top  of  a  packing  case  that  bore  in  bold 
black  letters  the  legend:  "Books — Keep  Dry." 

"Look  at  this,  Lady  Judith !"  The  small  frame  shook 
with  reminiscent  mirth.  "It  belongs  to  mamma  .  .  . 
twenty  volumes  of  general  information,  in  doses  to  match 
the  monthly  payments.  'Keep  Dry!'  You  couldn't  wet 
'em  with  a  fire  hose.  We  had  to  leave  them  here,  be- 
cause Lary  planned  the  book-cases,  in  the  other  house,  so 
that  they  wouldn't  quite  go  in.  And  mamma  had  one  aw- 
ful set-to  with  Professor  Ferguson  when  he  had  the  nerve 
to  use  her  box  of  canned  culture  to  lay  out  his  herbarium 
specimens  for  mounting.  Sylvia  said  it  taught  mamma  a 
lesson.  If  she  wanted  to  rent  Vine  Cottage,  she  couldn't 
go  on  deciding  how  often  the  silver  must  be  polished, 
and  what  the  tenant  could  do  with  the  old  plunder  she 
left  in  the  attic.  Plunder!  Think  of  it!" 

"She  has  been  an  exemplary  'landlord'  since  I  have 
been  here,"  Judith  said,  ignoring  Lary  and  his  too  evi- 
dent embarrassment.  "I  don't  in  the  least  mind  her  or- 
dering Dutton  around.  It  saves  my  humiliating  my- 
self in  the  eyes  of  my  gardener.  How  was  I  to  know 


122  Indian  Summer 

that  you  can't  grow  sweet  potatoes  from  seed,  and  that 
Brussels  sprouts  aren't  good  until  after  frost?" 

II 

Down  on  the  street  there  was  a  harsh  grinding  of 
brakes  and  an  excited  cry,  as  Hal  Marksley's  car  stopped 
so  abruptly  as  to  precipitate  Eileen  from  her  seat.  Theo- 
dora darted  to  the  window,  cupped  her  hands  around 
her  mouth,  and  shouted: 

"Come  on  up.  Mrs.  Ascott's  got  three  fans  for  you 
to  choose  from." 

A  moment  later,  two  pairs  of  feet  were  heard  ascend- 
ing the  stairs.  A  swift  sense  of  impending  disaster  sent 
Theo's  glance  from  the  face  of  her  hostess  to  that  of  her 
brother.  She  wondered  how  she  ought  to  have  worded 
her  invitation  so  that  Hal  could  not  have  assumed  it  to 
include  him.  A  young  man  of  fine  breeding  would  not 
need  to  be  told  that  she  was  not  asking  him  to  Mrs.  As- 
cott's attic,  when  Mrs.  Ascott  had  never  invited  him  to 
her  reception  room.  He  just  didn't  know  how  to  dis- 
criminate. Lately  Eileen  didn't  seem  to  discriminate, 
either.  She  should  have  told  Hal  not  to  come.  He 
would  be  terribly  embarrassed,  meeting  Lary.  But  of 
course  neither  of  them  knew  Lary  was  there. 

If  young  Marksley  knew  he  was  not  welcome  in  the 
sultry  store  room  of  Vine  cottage,  he  gave  no  token. 
Eileen's  breathless  condition,  when  she  reached  the  top 
of  the  steep  stair,  gave  him  a  momentary  conversational 
advantage. 

"I'm  going  over  to  my  sister's  to  dinner,  this  evening, 
and  the  kid  and  I  were  wondering  how  we'd  put  in  the 
time  till  the  rest  of  the  folks  arrive." 

"You  don't  mean  you're  going  to  eat  again — just  com- 


Coming  Storm  123 

ing  from  Ina's  graduation  party!"  Theodora  gasped. 
"What  did  she  serve?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  sumptuous  Stevens  spread.  What  did 
she  have,  Eileen?  All  I  can  remember  is  that  Kitten 
said  she  borrowed  the  microtome  from  the  lab.  to  cut  the 
sandwiches.  I  believe  there  was  an  olive  apiece,  by  act- 
ual count." 

"Don't  you  remember,  Hal?  The  feast  began  with 
frapped  essence  of  rose  fragrance,  served  in  cocktail 
glasses,  with  hearts  of  doughnuts.  Then  there  was  a 
salad  of  last  year's  ambitions  and  next  year's  hopes. 
And  something  to  drink  that  had  a  reminiscent  flavour  of 
coffee.  But  her  china  was  lovely.  She  borrowed  most  of 
it  from  Mrs.  Marksley.  That's  how  Hal  came  to  be  in- 
vited with  the  preps.  Gee,  when  I  ask  a  bunch  of  hungry 
kids  to  my  house,  I  feed  'em.  But  then,  I  know  how  to 
cook.  And  I  don't  have  to  be  so  desperately  dainty,  for 
fear  of  blundering  in  the  menu." 

"You  might  have  waited  for  some  one  else  to  say 
that,"  Larimore  rebuked. 

"Huh!  it's  a  poor  dog  that  can't  wag  its  own  tail. 
Besides,  I  can't  remember  when  you  or  any  of  my  family 
made  me  duck  to  keep  from  being  pelted  with  praise. 
That  poor  boy  is  almost  starved.  He  pretended  he 
didn't  like  olives,  so  that  I  could  have  two.  And  he  was 
about  to  smuggle  another  sandwich  when  Mrs.  Stevens 
told  what  they  charge  for  a  beef  tongue,  and  how  it 
shrinks  in  cooking." 

"Yes,"  the  youth  roared,  "when  you  go  to  Ina's  for 
a  meal,  your  oesophagus  rings  a  bell  every  time  you 
swallow.  Her  mother  makes  you  feel  as  if  you  were 
eating  the  grocery  bill.  We  eat  like  pigs  at  our 
house — all  but  sister,  and  she's  sure  no  recommendation 


124  Indian  Summer 

for  the  aesthetic  diet.  She'd  be  a  stunner,  with  a  little 
more  meat  on  her  bones." 

Eileen  flushed  and  changed  the  subject.  A  few  min- 
utes later,  Hal  lounged  across  the  room  to  where  Lary 
and  Theo  sat  silently  side  by  side.  He  began,  in  a  tone 
that  sought  to  be  intimate : 

"I  say,  old  man,  it  was  a  rotten  shame  about  those 
plans.  I  was  just  as  sorry  as  could  be.  But  my 
mother — " 

"One  doesn't  speak  of  such  things,"  Larimore  said 
curtly. 

Judith  saved  the  situation  by  the  timely  intervention 
of  the  fan — a  woman's  device  that  evoked  from  Lary 
gratitude,  from  Theo  worship.  An  exclamation  of  de- 
light, a  moment's  perplexed  comparison,  a  hasty  choice, 
and  Eileen  and  her  uncouth  cavalier  were  gone. 

Ill 

When  Theodora  looked  from  the  window,  some 
minutes  later,  the  two  were  crossing  the  street  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Nims'  house.  A  full  minute  she  stood,  per- 
plexed. Then  her  chest  heaved  with  futile  indignation. 
In  that  minute,  the  scattered  troubles  of  the  past  six 
weeks  had  danced  into  form,  like  iron  filings  on  the  glass 
disc,  when  Sydney  drew  his  violin  bow  across  its  vibrat- 
ing edge.  She  understood.  Mamma  had  given  permis- 
sion for  Eileen  to  go  with  Hal  to  Mrs.  Nims' — to  din- 
ner. After  all  she  had  said  about  Mrs.  Nims !  A  quar- 
rel with  papa  was  inevitable.  Mamma  wanted  to  pro- 
voke a  quarrel  with  papa.  There  was  no  other  explana- 
tion. Things  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse,  with  only  an 
occasional  rift  in  her  mother's  lowering  sky.  Whatever 
the  cause  of  her  displeasure,  it  had  reached  a  climax. 
Something  must  be  done  to  protect  papa — done  quickly. 


Coming  Storm  125 

Lary  was  not  always  tactful — when  people  acted  that 
way.  And  mamma  always  took  it  out  on  papa,  when 
Lary  got  the  best  of  her. 

"Lady  Judith,  couldn't  you  call  her  to  come  right  back 
here  .  .  .  eat  dinner  with  you?"  The  plea  tumbled 
from  the  inchoate  depth  of  her  distress.  Mrs.  Ascott 
and  Lary  interrupted  a  flow  of  intimate  talk,  to  look  at 
the  pale  face  and  the  preternaturally  bright  eyes. 

"What,  darling?" 

"Eileen!  I  think  my  mother  has  gone  crazy.  First 
she  says  Mrs.  Nims  isn't  fit  for  a  decent  woman  to  speak 
to — when  papa  talked  about  Christian  charity — and  now 
she  lets  Eileen  go  over  there  to  dinner." 

"How  do  you  know  that,  baby?" 

"Well,  Lary  Trench,  look  for  yourself.  I  guess  I 
can  put  two  and  two  together.  If  I  didn't  want  papa 
to  think  Mrs.  Nims  was  a  dangerous  woman — I  wouldn't 
tell  him  that  Christ  himself  couldn't  save  her.  Either 
my  mother  hasn't  got  any  system  at  all  ...  or  ... 
she  wants  to  have  one  awful  row  with  my  father." 

"We  might  as  well  face  a  sickeningly  unpleasant  sit- 
uation," Larimore  said  to  Judith.  "You  are  seeing  my 
mother  at  her  absolute  worst.  Something  has  occurred 
to  annoy  her,  desperately.  And  we  can't  even  surmise 
what  it  is.  The  baby  and  I  have  laid  plots  to  trap  her 
into  betraying  the  cause  of  her  hurt.  But  only  last  night 
we  acknowledged  ourselves  beaten." 

"May  I  confess  that  I  have  been  trying,  too,  at  Dr. 
Schubert's  suggestion?  He  tells  me  that  this  state  of  her 
mind  may  lead  to  serious  consequences.  Some  obscure 
liver  trouble,  I  believe." 

"Not  obscure,"  Lary  amended.  "Dr.  Schubert  un- 
derstands its  pathological  aspect.  It  is  the  mental 
cause  that  baffles  all  of  us.  Gall  stones  are  not  uncom- 


126  Indian  Summer 

mon  in  women  of  my  mother's  temperament.  She  has 
too  much  energy  for  the  small  engine  she  has  to  operate. 
Her  physician  has  tried  to  impress  on  her  the  need  for 
keeping  herself  tranquil.  He  might  as  well  advise  a 
tornado  to  be  calm  and  rational." 

"Yet  she  does  take  advice  from  him — if  he  makes  it 
specific  and  definite." 

"You  have  the  index  to  my  mother's  mind — that  cost 
me  years  of  search.  She  learns  one  thing  at  a  time. 
She  has  no  faculty  for  making  logical  deductions.  When 
she  tries  to  apply  a  known  principle  to  a  new  set  of  con- 
ditions the  chances  are  nine  to  one  that  she  will  go 
wrong." 

As  he  spoke,  the  woman's  eyes  turned  to  Theodora 
.  .  .  impelled  by  some  unrecognized  attraction.  The 
little  head  was  nodding  in  sage  approval.  She  was  only 
half  conscious  of  what  those  two  were  saying.  The  fact 
that  it  was  intimate — confidential — sufficed.  Things 
were  coming  on,  entirely  to  her  liking.  It  was  almost  the 
end  of  June,  and  she  wanted  to  be  sure  there  would  be  no 
backslidings,  while  she  and  her  mother  were  in  Min- 
neapolis, the  following  month.  She  had  never  been  any- 
where— excepting  the  week  in  St.  Louis  for  the  Exposi- 
tion, when  she  was  seven — and  a  trip  up  the  river  on  a 
steamer  had  been  particularly  alluring.  Now  she  would 
almost  rather  not  go.  She  might  be  needed.  Oh,  not 
to  patch  up  a  quarrel !  Lary  and  Lady  Judith  were  too 
wellbred  for  that.  But  Lary  did  need  to  have  his  cour- 
age bucked  up,  now  and  then. 

She  was  only  a  child,  she  reflected,  but  she  knew  that 
when  people  were  in  love,  they  had  no  business  mooning 
around  in  the  dark — in  separate  yards.  She  could  go 
over  the  wall  without  touching  anything  but  her  hands. 
And  Lary  was  much  more  athletic  than  she.  Besides, 


Coming  Storm  127 

the  gate  was  there — even  if  mamma  did  padlock  it,  one 
morning.  What  if  Lady  Judith  should  try  to  go  through 
that  gate — and  have  her  feelings  hurt ! 

IV 

Theodora  glanced  up  from  her  troubled  musings  to 
perceive  that  she  was  quite  alone  in  the  attic.  They  had 
gone  and  left  her.  They  had  forgotten  all  about  her. 
She  sprang  from  the  packing  case  and  danced  for  joy. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  all  her  life  that  Lary  had  for- 
gotten her.  It  was  the  best  omen  of  all.  They  were 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs — and  they  weren't  say- 
ing a  word.  She  paused,  on  tiptoe,  afraid  to  breathe 
lest  she  break  the  witching  spell.  What  did  people  think 
about,  when  they  were  all  alone  in  that  kind  of  heaven? 
Now  she  heard  their  feet  on  the  lower  stairs.  She  hur- 
ried to  the  window  to  see  them  go  down  to  the  grassy  plot 
before  the  house,  where  her  father  joined  them. 

The  rosy  picture  was  obscured,  in  an  instant,  as  if  she 
had  spilled  the  ink  bottle  over  it,  and  daddy's  danger 
loomed  before  her.  She  trudged  wearily  down  to  join 
them  on  the  grass.  Things  never  were  what  you  thought 
they  were  going  to  be.  When  she  reached  the  edge  of 
the  veranda,  a  pair  of  strong  arms  caught  her  in  a  yearn- 
ing embrace. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  congratulate  your  papa?" 

"If  there's  any  reason.  Did  you  get  the  Marksley 
contract?" 

David's  transparent  face  darkened. 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  that's  not  a  matter  for  congratulation. 
I  figured  so  high  that  I  counted  on  escaping.  I  didn't 
want  it  at  any  price." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"You  know,  this  was  the  annual  meeting  of  the  college 


128  Indian  Summer 

Board — and  they  elected  your  papa  treasurer.  When 
Dr.  Clarkson  made  his  nominating  speech,  I  didn't  dream 
he  was  talking  about  me." 

"Mamma  said  this  morning  that  they'd  shove  it  off  on 
you — after  the  way  the  last  two  treasurers  handled  the 
funds.  She  couldn't  see  why  you  would  want  to  do  all 
that  work,  just  to  be  called  the  most  honest  man  on  the 
Board." 

"Mamma  and  I  don't  always  look  at  things  alike. 
Come,  my  dears,  she  is  at  the  door,  and  dinner  may  be 
waiting." 

"Eileen  went  to  a  party,  over  at  Ina's,"  Theo  cried, 
mindful  of  danger.  To  herself  she  added:  "Well,  she 
did.  I  didn't  tell  him  she  wasn't  there  still."  Daddy 
must  not  find  out  that  she  was  right  across  the  street. 
There  had  been  too  many  disagreements,  and  it  never 
did  daddy  any  good  to  fight  back.  He  always  got  the 
worst  of  it,  and  it  made  him  sick.  She  wanted  to  ask 
Mrs.  Ascott  to  come  with  them,  and  eat  dinner  in  Eileen's 
place.  Mamma  would  hardly  raise  a  scene  before  com- 
pany. As  the  invitation  took  shape  on  her  lips,  it  was 
halted  by  her  mother's  curt  voice : 

"I  suppose  you  like  your  victuals  cold,  the  way  you 
stand  there  and  gossip." 

The  three  Trenches  stepped  over  the  wall,  which  at 
the  front  was  little  more  than  an  ornamental  coping, 
and  Judith  went  in  to  her  lonely  meal. 


Dinner  was  scarcely  over  when  the  room  was  plunged 
in  a  glare  of  fire,  the  startling  illumination  followed  al- 
most instantly  by  thunder  that  crackled  and  smote. 
Then  the  storm,  that  had  hovered  all  afternoon  in  the 
sultry  air,  broke  with  the  fury  of  explosively  released 


Coming  Storm  129 

wind  and  rain.  Nanny  called  for  help,  as  the  deluge 
poured  through  the  screens  at  three  sides  of  the  cottage  in 
quick  succession.  Before  the  east  windows  had  been 
closed,  the  rain  was  driving  straight  from  the  south — 
and  the  attic  window  wide  open.  Nanny's  bulk  halted 
at  the  foot  of  the  breath-exhausting  stairs,  and  her  mis- 
tress ran  past  her,  to  make  good  the  publisher's  injunc- 
tion, "Keep  Dry."  When  the  sash  had  been  lowered, 
Judith  went  to  the  rear  of  the  attic  and  looked  down  into 
the  garden,  tossing  in  the  summer  storm. 

Sharp,  hissing  flames  heralded  the  detonation  of  thun- 
der such  as  she  had  heard  nowhere  save  in  the  Alps  or 
the  tropics.  The  earth,  a  moment  ago  black  with  the 
pall  of  midnight,  leaped  into  the  semblance  of  a  stage 
set  with  dancing  marionets,  that  vanished  in  the  ensuing 
darkness  to  rise  again  with  the  next  purple  flash.  Now 
the  wind  swooned,  lay  panting  and  breathless  against  the 
palpitating  bosom  of  the  earth.  And  now  it  leaped  with 
renewed  ardour,  gripped  the  pear  tree  and  shook  it  as  an 
ill-controlled  mother  shakes  an  unruly  child.  One  of  the 
trellises  at  the  east  side  of  the  lawn  went  over  with  a 
crash,  carrying  in  its  wake  a  shower  of  Prairie  Queen 
roses.  The  Dorothy  Perkins  looked  on  with  serene  se- 
curity from  the  shoulder  of  the  garage,  her  petals  drag- 
gled, but  exultant  in  the  garish  light. 

The  air  was  clearing  now.  Gradually  the  tender 
green  corn  slumped  down  in  the  softened  loam  and  a  dis- 
consolate toad  hopped  mournfully  across  the  white  gra- 
vel walk.  This  was  too  much  even  for  a  toad.  With 
a  long,  soul-sickening  lunge  he  disappeared  in  the  shrub- 
bery, as  the  thunder  rumbled  its  retreat  behind  the  western 
horizon.  Out  of  its  dying  reverberation,  music  came  float- 
ing up  through  the  moist  air  ...  marvellous  strains. 
Judith  crossed  the  attic  and  threw  open  the  window. 


130  Indian  Summer 

Yes,  her  surmise  was  right.  Eileen  and  Mrs.  Nims 
were  playing  Debussy's  matchless  tone  picture,  "Garden 
in  the  Rain,"  the  'cello  blending  exquisitely  with  the 
piano.  Would  David  hear?  Would  he  recognize  his 
daughter's  touch?  But  Eileen  had  never  played  like 
this.  The  tones  came,  moist  and  meaningful,  lulling  the 
conscious  mind  to  dreams,  steeping  the  senses  in  the 
drowsy  calm  that  follows  the  delirium  of  summer  heat. 

Judith  Ascott  felt  her  soul  at  one  with  the  garden  .  .  . 
arid  clay,  whose  thirst  had  been  quenched.  She  had 
played  Debussy's  imagist  arrangement,  and  had  rejected 
it  because  it  failed  to  symbolize  a  prosaic  natural  phe- 
nomenop.  Now  she  knew  that  it  was  not  the  rain,  but 
the  garden,  which  the  composer  had  in  mind.  She  had 
approached  the  theme  from  overhead,  just  as  a  moment 
ago  she  had  looked  down  on  her  own  garden.  With  a 
thrill  she  perceived  Debussy's  thought  in  all  its  naked, 
elemental  beauty — the  primitive  consciousness  of  ma- 
ternal Earth,  glad  and  grateful  for  the  beriison  of  sum- 
mer rain. 

Had  something  new  come  into  Eileen's  playing?  Was 
it  Adelaide  Marksley's  'cello  that  made  the  elusive 
thought  tangible?  Was  it,  rather,  something  that  had 
come  into  her  own  soul?  She  had  been  so  long  athirst. 
Must  one  faint  beneath  the  heat,  brave  the  wind  and  the 
lightning's  terror,  in  order  to  drink  in  at  last  the  bounti- 
ful rain?  Was  there  any  price  one  would  not  pay  for 
such  peace  as  had  found  habitation  within  her  soul? 


XVII    A  Place  Called  Bromfield 


In  the  morning  the  mistress  of  Vine  Cottage  went  out 
to  inspect  the  havoc  the  storm  had  wrought.  Dutton 
was  down  on  his  knees,  righting  the  vivid  green  corn 
stalks  and  banking  them  in  with  the  soft  soil.  Theodora 
stood  on  the  gravel  walk,  watching  him  with  elfin 
curiosity — his  shins  protected  by  huge  pads  of  faded 
brussels  carpet,  his  fingers  so  packed  with  mud  that  they 
resembled  a  sculptor's  model  in  the  rough.  When  she 
caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Ascott  she  crossed  the  intervening 
lawn  on  dainty  toes,  like  a  kitten  afraid  of  the  wet. 

"We  didn't  have  any  trouble  about  Eileen,"  she  began 
in  a  whisper  pregnant  with  meaning.  "I  fixed  it." 

"You  were  a  good  little  angel.  Have  you  a  kiss  for 
me  this  morning?" 

"A  million  of  them  .  .  .  but  only  one,  now."  She 
pursed  her  lips  with  strigine  solemnity.  The  kiss  was 
a  rite — not  to  be  taken  frivolously.  "I  have  to  tell  you 
about  it.  I  don't  think  it  was  half  bad — for  a  kid  like 
me.  It  didn't  look  as  if  it  would  work,  when  I  started 
in.  But  if  you  are  in  as  tight  a  pinch  as  that,  you  have 
to  jump  where  there  looks  like  an  opening.  Then  I  had 
to  see  it  through.  There  wasn't  any  chance  to  back  out." 
The  sentence  was  somewhat  chaotic,  but  the  meaning  was 
plain. 

"When  we  started  in  the  house,  I  let  mamma  and  Lary 
get  clear  inside  the  hall.  Then  I  pulled  papa  back  and 
whispered  in  his  ear — that  Eileen  was  over  at  Mrs.  Nims' 

131 


132  Indian  Summer 

and  for  him  not  to  let  on  that  he  missed  her.  He  asked 
me  why,  and  I  told  him  that  if  he  was  any  sport  at  all, 
he'd  do  as  I  said,  and  not  ask  any  questions.  And  what 
do  you  think,  Lady  Judith  ...  he  was  game !  Mamma 
threw  out  one  hook  after  another,  to  make  him  ask 
where  Eileen  was.  And  every  time  he  turned  and  looked 
at  me — and  I  gave  him  the  most  awful  glances,  behind 
my  napkin.  The  only  thing  he  could  think  of,  right 
quick,  was  getting  made  treasurer  of  the  college  trustees. 
And  I  don't  know  why  mamma  didn't  smell  something, 
because  it  isn't  the  least  bit  like  my  daddy  to  boast." 

"And  then  the  storm  may  have  helped." 

"Yes,  papa  said  that  was  sent  by  Divine  Providence. 
It  gave  me  a  chance  to  explain  to  him — while  mamma  was 
chasing  all  over  the  house,  putting  down  windows,  and 
screaming  at  Drusilla  as  if  the  house  was  on  fire.  I  told 
him  that  mamma  was  mad  as  a  wet  hen — and  just  bound 
and  determined  to  start  something,  with  him  .  .  .  and 
he  mustn't  fall  for  it.  Lady  Judith,  I  wish  my  daddy 
had  more  sand.  He  choked  up — like  he  was  about  to 
cry — and  said  he  didn't  know  what  was  wrong  with 
mamma.  He  tried  every  way  to  please  her  and  make 
her  happy.  He  asked  me  if  I  knew  why  she  was  so  cross 
all  the  time  .  .  .  and  I  fibbed  an  awful  fib.  I  told  him 
Dr.  Schubert  said  she  had  rocks  in  her  liver  and  that 
would  make  a  saint  cross." 

Her  eyes  danced  with  roguish  mirth,  then  fell.  When 
she  raised  them  again  to  the  woman's  face,  they  were  full 
of  obstinate  purpose. 

"I  guess  it  was  a  sin  and  God  will  punish  me.  Well, 
let  Him  ...  if  He  feels  that  way  about  it.  I'd  take  a 
whipping  any  day,  to  keep  my  daddy  from  getting  one. 
If  your  soul  is  so  nice  that  you  can't  fib  once  in  a  while, 
to  help  a  fellow  out  of  trouble—  She  battled  with  the 


A  Place  Called  Bromfield          133 

futility  of  language  to  convey  the  situation  as  she  per- 
ceived it.  "Still,  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  think  it  was 
wrong  .  .  .  telling  a  story,  to  keep  some  one  out  of  a 
scolding — some  one  that  never  did  a  mean  thing  in  his 
whole  life.  Do  you — do  you  think  it  is?" 

"You  darling!"  Aching  arms  encircled  her.  "I 
don't  know  how  to  answer  you.  We  both  know  that  it  is 
wrong,  in  the  abstract,  to  tell  lies." 

"Yes,  but  I  never  tell  them  in  the  abstract.  It's  only 
when  there  isn't  any  other  way."  The  explanation 
threatened  to  assume  the  solemnity  of  a  lecture  on  prag- 
matism. "I  have  wanted  to  tell  you — ever  since  Lary 
said  I  was  a  conscienceless  fibber.  It's  one  thing  I  can't 
make  him  understand,  and  he  knows  everything  else  with- 
out being  told.  When  you  want  a  thing  to  be  a  certain 
way,  and  it  isn't  that  way  at  all,  you  can't  use  the  facts. 
They  don't  fit.  And  what  good  does  it  do — to  keep  say- 
ing a  thing  over,  the  way  you  don't  want  it  to  be?" 

"A  popular  religion  was  founded  on  that  premise, 
dearie." 

"What  I'm  talking  about  hasn't  got  anything  to  do 
with  religion.  Bob  used  to  say,  'A  lie  is  an  abomination 
in  the  sight  of  the  Lord,  and  a  very  present  help  in  time 
of  trouble.'  But  I  would  never  fib  to  keep  myself  out 
of  trouble.  You  have  to  save  them  .  .  .  till  there's 
something  important.  If  I  hadn't  told  Lary  you  didn't 
like  the  apricot  lamp  shade,  he  wouldn't  have  thought  of 
going  over  to  call  on  you — till  Syd  Schubert  or  some 
other  man  fell  in  love  with  you." 

Lavinia  Trench's  strident  voice  rasped  the  sweet  morn- 
ing air.  Theo  was  having  altogether  too  pleasant  a 
time,  over  there  in  Mrs.  Ascott's  garden.  That  which 
she  had  related  would  have  stung  her  mother  to  mad- 
ness. But  Theo's  afterthought  was  a  little  outcropping 


134  Indian  Summer 

of  Lavinia  herself.  In  Button's  phrase :  "That  woman'll 
have  something  stickin'  in  her  craw  for  years — and  she'll 
have  to  fetch  it  out,  in  spite  of  the  devil.  If  you  ever 
make  her  sore,  or  do  her  a  bad  turn — you  might  think 
she  forgot  it — but  the  time'll  come  when  she  lets  you  hear 
about  it." 

II 

When  the  child  had  gone,  Dutton  untied  the  pads  from 
his  knees  and  approached  his  mistress.  The  wind  had 
wrecked  the  frail  framework  which  he  had  constructed 
of  lath  and  the  refuse  from  David  Trench's  shop,  to  sup- 
port the  rank  growth  of  tomato  vines,  over  there  by  the 
wall.  He  admitted,  shamefacedly,  that  he  "knowed 
them  end  supports  was  too  weak,"  when  he  put  them  in. 
He  wondered  if  Mrs.  Ascott  would  mind  helping  him. 
Mrs.  Dutton  was  in  a  bad  humour,  on  account  of  some 
words  she  had  had  with  Mrs.  Trench.  And  Nanny  was 
no  good  for  carpenter  work. 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  carpenter — " 

"Oh,  it  ain't  work.  It's  just  that  Nanny's  feet's  too 
big.  She  gets  in  the  way.  I  thought  I  might  call  Dave 
over  to  he'p  me;  but  he's  been  out  in  the  shop  runnin' 
the  scroll  saw  for  dear  life,  since  right  after  breakfast. 
The  old  boy's  goin'  through  his  hells  again.  I  tell  you, 
ma'am,  it's  an  awful  mistake  to  call  a  girl  'Vine'  and  then 
give  her  no  mind  to  cling.  When  she's  in  one  o'  her  tan- 
trums, she  wouldn't  see  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  if  she 
met  Him  in  the  middle  of  the  road — and  she  sets  a  heap 
o'  store  by  the  Lord." 

There  was  only  one  way  to  handle  Jeff  Dutton.  An 
open  rebuke  was  invariably  followed  by  a  day  of  insolent 
idleness.  Mrs.  Ascott  had  heard  him  quarrel  with  La- 


A  Place  Called  Bromfield          135 

vinia  Trench  in  a  manner  to  indicate  that  one  of  them,  at 
least,  had  not  forgotten  their  former  state  of  social 
equality.  The  pointed  ignoring  of  his  familiar  gossip 
usually  proved  efficacious.  He  followed  his  mistress  to 
the  loamy  bed  in  the  sheltered  angle  between  the  garage 
and  the  wall,  where  downy  leaved  vines  and  splintered 
lath  lay  in  a  hopeless  tangle  on  the  ground.  A  while 
they  worked,  side  by  side,  the  sullen  silence  broken  only 
by  the  whirring  of  David's  saw.  Judith's  fingers  were 
verde  and  odorous,  and  the  hem  of  her  skirt  was  adorned 
with  a  batik  pattern  of  grotesque  figures  in  the  har- 
monious hues  of  earth  and  vine.  Nanny  would  scold. 
But  what  was  the  good  of  a  garden,  if  one  must  only  be 
a  disinterested  onlooker?  Suddenly  Dutton  yelled: 
"There  !  Grab  'er  quick!  This  end — can't  you  see?" 
The  next  moment  he  offered  profuse  apology.  But 
his  mistress  was  ready  for  the  emergency.  It  was  nec- 
essary for  him  to  go  into  the  garage  and  cut  another  sup- 
port to  take  the  place  of  the  one  that  had  snapped. 

"Better  put  this  'ere  pad  on  the  ground,  under  your 
right  foot,  while  you  hold  'er  up.  Them  slippers  is 
mighty  thin.  I  won't  be  gone  a  minute." 

Ill 

Button's  minute  was  always  a  variable  quantity,  and 
this  time  it  lengthened  itself  until  the  woman's  arms  and 
shoulders  ached,  from  the  unwonted  strain.  But  she 
was  glad  of  the  interval — glad  that  only  she  was  forced 
to  hear  snatches  of  the  conversation  that  took  place  in 
the  shop  at  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  One  of  the  voices 
was  low  and  appealing,  the  other  raucous  with  purpose- 
ful anger: 

"I  can't  see,  my  dear,  why  you  want  to  go  to  Brom- 


136  Indian  Summer 

field  this  summer,  when  you  have  all  your  plans  made  to 
take  the  trip  to  St.  Paul  on  the  boat.  You  have  always 
refused  to  visit  Bromfield." 

"That's  just  it.  You  never  want  me  to  go  anywhere 
— have  any  pleasure — or  even  a  vacation  when  you  see 
that  the  work  is  killing  me.  You  gad  around  as  much  as 
you  like.  You've  been  away  five  times  this  spring." 

"I  certainly  don't  go  for  pleasure,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  don't  'my  dear'  me!  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  it. 
That's  all  I  ever  get.  You  expect  me  to  slave  and  stint 
myself  and  stay  at  home,  so  that  you  and  the  children 
can  make  a  big  showing.  And  I'm  supposed  to  be  happy 
and  contented  on  your  everlasting  'my  dears.'  I  tell  you, 
there's  got  to  be  a  change  in  this  family." 

"Who  is  there  in  Bromfield  that  you  want  to  see?" 

"I  should  think  I  might  want  to  see  my  brother.  And 
a  daughter  might  want  to  put  flowers  on  her  parents' 
graves." 

"That  isn't  it,  Vine.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  the  truth? 
I  would  give  you.  anything  in  my  power,  that  would  make 
you  happy.  It's  this  underhanded  way  you  have,  that 
hurts  me.  I  don't  care  where  you  go  or  what  you  do, 
if  you'll  only—" 

At  that  moment  Button  came  from  the  garage,  to  be 
greeted  by  a  volley  of  questions  and  suggestions.  For- 
tunately, as  he  worked,  his  deaf  ear  was  turned  towards 
David  Trench's  shop.  Scarcely  had  the  last  nail  been 
driven  when  Mrs.  Trench  emerged  from  the  building 
and  strode  triumphantly  towards  the  back  stoop.  For 
her  the  universe  was  a  straight  line.  Everything  above, 
beneath  and  beside  it  had  melted  into  oblivion.  The 
line  ended  in  a  point  on  the  map  of  New  York,  known  to 
the  initiate  as  Bromfield. 


Book  Two 
Summer 


XVIII     Sylvia 

i 

Throughout  the  months  of  May  and  June  the  battle 
had  raged — Lavinia  Trench's  battle,  not  with  her  family 
but  with  herself.  She  knew,  as  all  those  in  her  little 
world  knew,  that  a  visit  to  Bromfield  was  not  the  difficult 
thing  she  had  made  it.  Times  without  number  David 
had  implored  her  to  go  with  him  especially  when  there 
was  serious  illness  or  death  in  one  or  the  other  of  their 
families.  And  now  that  she  had  achieved  her  purpose, 
knowing  all  the  while,  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  her, 
hope  of  conquest  on  a  certain  perfectly  definite  object, 
and  had  bent  her  tremendous  energy  in  that  direction — 
knowing  all  the  while,  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  her, 
that  the  enemy  lay  entrenched  in  quite  another  quarter. 

In  those  former  struggles,  in  which  she  had  invariably 
bent  David  to  her  will,  she  had  rewarded  him  with  a  per- 
iod of  forced  sweetness  which  he  was  glad  to  take  in  lieu 
of  the  comradeship  he  had  long  since  ceased  to  hope  for. 
It  had  been  this  way  when  they  made  the  perilous  move 
from  Olive  Hill,  where  he  was  doing  remarkably  well, 
working  at  a  daily  wage,  to  Springdale,  where  he  must 
hazard  all  he  had  saved  ...  to  give  his  wife  the  social 
advantage  she  could  not  find  in  a  dirty  mining  town. 
But  Lavinia  had  no  instinct  for  society,  derived  no  im- 
mediate satisfaction  from  such  triumphs  as  had  come  to 
her.  It  appeared  to  David's  simple  and  always  lucid 
mind  that  she  created  situations  for  the  sheer  purpose  of 
annihilating  them.  In  every  crisis  in  their  lives,  he  had 

139 


140  Indian  Summer 

owned  in  retrospect  that  Lavinia  was  right.  Had  he 
understood  the  situation,  a  frank  discussion  would  have 
won  him.  It  was  her  method  of  approach  that  seemed 
to  him  unnecessarily  cruel. 

She  had,  from  childhood,  viewed  David  Trench  as  an 
amiable  yokel,  to  be  blindfolded  and  led  about  by  the 
hand.  And  now  one  sentence  in  his  talk,  that  morning 
in  the  shop,  rankled:  "Who  is  it  that  you  want  to  see  in 
Bromfield?"  She  had  been  telling  herself  over  and  over 
again  that  there  was  no  one  in  particular  she  wanted  to 
see.  Her  essentially  prudish  mind  shrank  from  the 
naked  truth  that  stalked  before  her,  in  the  dark  hours  of 
the  night,  with  David  peacefully  sleeping  at  her  side. 
But  negation  was  not  conquest.  In  vain  she  declared  to 
her  own  soul  that  Calvin  Stone  was  nothing  to  her.  She 
could  meet  him  without  a  tremor.  She  tried  to  picture 
him,  old  and  scarred  by  life — shrinking  from  her  gaze, 
because  of  the  stain  on  his  fair  name.  She  saw  him,  in- 
stead, a  debonair  youth  of  three-and-twenty,  the  sort  of 
fellow  who  would  kiss  a  girl  .  .  .  and  argue  about  it 
afterward. 

There  had  been  periods,  weeks  and  even  months,  when 
the  foothills  of  her  immediate  environment  had  obscured 
that  treeless  mountain  peak  in  her  life — the  irreparable 
injury  she  had  suffered.  But  something  always  happened 
to  bring  her  perfidious  lover  once  more  within  her  ken. 
Never  so  poignantly  as  when  Mrs.  Ascott  unwittingly 
revealed  the  reason  for  Calvin's  hasty  marriage.  She 
had  fancied  such  an  explanation  .  .  .  had  been  sure  that 
the  certainty  of  it  would  be  anodyne  for  her  deep  hurt. 
Instead  it  had  served  only  to  tear  open  the  old  wound, 
to  set  it  festering  with  the  toxin  of  that  other  unstudied 
remark:  "He  afterward  tried  to  get  out  of  it."  Had  not 
Calvin's  father  foreshadowed  this  very  contingency? 


Sylvia  141 

Lettie's  husband  might  sicken  of  his  bargain — might  come 
back  to  his  first  love,  to  plead  for  her  forgiveness  and 
the  boon  of  her  restored  favour. 

She  would  keep  this  idea  uppermost  in  her  mind,  when 
she  went  to  Bromfield.  It  not  only  served  to  soothe  her 
vanity,  but  it  would  be  a  whip  with  which  to  lash  the  man 
who  had  wronged  her.  No,  she  would  not  give  him  the 
satisfaction  of  thinking  she  regretted  her  own  hasty  mar- 
riage. She  would  make  him  believe  she  had  been  infin- 
itely the  gainer  when  she  married  David  Trench.  The 
idea  was  so  preposterous  that,  given  a  less  subjective 
sense  of  humour,  she  might  have  laughed  at  it.  But  David 
had  been  that  kind  of  stalking  horse  before. 

II 

David  leaned  against  the  wall,  his  tired  eyes  resting 
fondly  on  the  garden  where  his  children  had  romped. 
He  was  telling  Mrs.  Ascott  the  origin  of  the  summer 
house — that  he  had  built  as  a  surprise  for  his  wife,  the 
spring  she  went  to  visit  Lary  in  Ithaca,  his  first  year  in 
college.  In  those  days  Sylvia  was  the  honey-pot  for  a 
swarm  of  students,  and  an  occasional  mature  man,  and  a 
folding  tea  table  in  an  outdoor  livingroom  covered  with 
kudzu  and  crimson  rambler  was  an  added  attraction. 
Lavinia  joined  them,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  dark  eyes 
ablaze  with  animation. 

"You  are  going  to  be  compelled  to  get  along  without 
me  for  a  few  weeks,  Mrs.  Ascott.  My  husband  is  sick 
and  tired  of  seeing  me  around,  and  he's  going  to  bundle 
me  up  and  send  me  home  to  my  own  people.  It's  the 
first  trip  I've  had  in  years  .  .  .  always  tied  down  to 
home  and  my  children.  Is  there  anyone  in  Rochester 
you'd  like  to  send  a  message  to?  ,1  haven't  seen  dear  old 


142  Indian  Summer 

New  York  state  since  I  left  there,  twenty-eight  years  ago 
next  November." 

"Why,  Vine,  I  was  just  telling  Mrs.  Ascott  about 
building  the  little  summer  house  for  you,  when  you 
went  to  see  Lary." 

Lavinia  Trench  flushed,  not  the  slow  red  that  be- 
tokened deep  wrath,  but  a  light  wave  of  crimson  that 
swallowed  up  the  hectic  spots  in  her  cheeks,  that  tinged 
the  hollow  of  her  temples  and  the  taut  skin  of  her  high 
and  slightly  receding  forehead.  It  was  gone  in  an  in- 
stant, leaving  in  its  wash  a  strained  look  of  embarrass- 
ment. 

"I  never  think  of  that  as  a  visit.  I  went  in  such  a 
hurry — and  then  I  didn't  have  time  to  go  over  to  Brom- 
field,  because  .  .  .  you  wrote  me  that  Sylvia  had  a  cold 
and  Robert  had  sprained  his  wrist.  I  never  go  away 
from  home  without  something  dreadful  happening.  I 
wonder  what  Sylvia  will  say  when  she  gets  my  telegram 
tonight.  I  hope  she  won't  be  frightened." 

"You  are  going  to  telegraph  Sylvia?  What  for?" 

"I  want  her  to  look  after  the  children  while  I'm  gone." 

"You  aren't  taking  them  with  you — after  promising 
Eileen  that  she  might  spend  the  summer  with  her  cousin, 
Alice  Larimore?" 

"A  nice  rest  I  would  have — dragging  two  children 
around  with  me!" 

"They  don't  need  to  have  their  bottles  fixed."  David 
smiled  in  spite  of  his  perplexity.  "I  had  counted  on  this 
summer — to  break  up  the  infatuation  for  young  Marks- 
ley.  I  thought  you  agreed  with  me.  It  was  your  solu- 
tion. You  told  me  not  to  say  anything  about  it  until  va- 
cation, and  that  you  would  send  Eileen  away." 

David  might  have  spared  his  breath.  The  telegram 
was  already  on  the  wire. 


Sylvia  143 

III 

Sylvia  Penrose  came  home  in  time  for  commencement. 
It  was  her  first  visit  since  the  gold-lined  catastrophe 
whereby  she  was  shorn  of  the  coveted  "Mrs.  Professor," 
and  she  brought  with  her  more  pretty  clothes  than  any- 
one in  Springdale  had  dreamed  of — outside  a  department 
store.  Her  father  watched  her  uneasily,  the  first  even- 
ing. He  saw  a  marked  change  in  her,  and  the  quality  of 
it  disturbed  him.  Could  a  child  of  his  acquire  such  a  de- 
gree of  cynical  world-wisdom  in  a  brief  ten  months? 
Had  Sylvia  changed,  or  was  he  seeing  her  for  the  first 
time,  as  she  was? 

David  was  not  given  to  introspection.  The  chambers 
of  his  heart  were  filled  with  the  ghosts  of  dreams  and 
longings  that  had  perished  .  .  .  yet  would  not  lie  quiet 
in  the  graves  to  which  his  acquiescent  mind  had  consigned 
them.  One  could  always  take  refuge  from  the  hurt  of 
life  in  the  tangible  things  that  life  had  imposed.  He 
took  refuge,  now,  in  his  wife's  vivid  charm,  her  sponta- 
neous return  to  health  and  buoyancy.  Barring  a  certain 
smugness,  that  had  come  to  be  an  essential  fibre  of  her 
mental  woof,  she  was  amazingly  attractive. 

"You  might  easily  pass  for  Mrs.  Penrose's  sister," 
Judith  exclaimed,  astonished  at  the  apparition  of 
Lavinia  in  a  cameo  pink  negligee  with  wide  frills  of  cream 
lace.  And  Lavinia,  smarting  under  the  lash  of  her 
daughter's  comments  regarding  the  morning  jacket — and 
the  foolish  old  women  who  tried  to  prolong  youth  by 
such  ill-considered  devices — turned  to  ,preen  herself  be- 
fore the  mirror. 

She  had  fully  intended  to  prime  Sylvia,  with  regard  to 
Larimore  and  the  dangerous  widow;  but  that  burst  of 
spontaneous  praise  disarmed  her.  She  did  not,  however, 


144  Indian  Summer 

neglect  to  make  plain  her  intentions  in  another  quarter. 
Hal  Marksley  was  to  be  treated  with  proper  respect.  It 
would  not  be  a  bad  idea  to  have  the  engagement — the 
wedding,  even — consummated  before  her  return  from 
Bromfield.  Any  one  with  a  grain  of  sense  must  know 
that  a  fellow  as  popular  and  rich  as  Hal — with  half  the 
girls  in  town  after  him — would  not  stand  such  snubbing 
as  he  had  received  from  the  men  of  the  household.  He 
was  of  age  .  .  .  and  Eileen  could  easily  pass  herself  off 
for  eighteen  or  twenty  if  she  did  up  her  hair  and  went 
to  Greenville  where  she  was  not  known.  Papa  and  Lar- 
imore  were  absolutely  insane  not  to  see  that  a  girl  with 
Eileen's  impetuous  nature.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Trench  did  not 
finish  the  sentence.  She  and  Sylvia  understood  each 
other. 

IV 

After  the  train  had  gone  the  big  house  was  unbearably 
lonely,  reft  of  the  all  pervasive  personality  that  domi- 
nated its  moods  of  sunshine  and  gloom.  Early  Sunday 
afternoon  David  passed  through  the  wicket  gate  and 
sought  his  neighbour  in  the  summer  house.  One  by  one 
the  other  Trenches  joined  them.  For  a  time  Sylvia  went 
about  with  her  brother,  examining  old  familiar  objects, 
assuming  charming  attitudes,  giving  vent  to  laughter  that 
rippled  in  measured  cadence.  Theodora  watched  her, 
wondering  what  kind  of  impression  she  was  making. 
Sylvia  was  like  mamma — always  sure  of  herself.  Lary 
and  Eileen  were  like  papa.  And  she — she  wasn't  like 
anybody.  Just  a  little  remnant  that  had  been  patched 
together,  out  of  the  left-overs  of  the  other  children. 

She  came  out  of  her  musings  to  hear  her  father  say: 
"Mrs.  Ascott,  you  don't  know  what  it  means  to  live  with 


Sylvia  145 

one  person  until  that  person  becomes  part  of  your  very 
body.  When  Vine  is  away.  ...  I  do  everything  left- 
handed.  It's  as  if  a  piece  of  me  was  gone,  here."  He 
slipped  a  hand  under  his  left  arm,  and  his  eyes  smiled 
mournfully.  "I  am  always  turning  to  look  for  her,  and 
the  vacancy  makes  me  dizzy." 

How  stupid  to  miss  the  first  part  of  such  a  conversa- 
tion !  And  now  Lady  Judith  wouldn't  say  anything  in  re- 
ply— because  the  others  were  coming  for  afternoon  tea, 
with  Nanny,  an  exaggerated  cocoa  girl  in  white  cap  and 
apron,  bearing  a  steaming  samovar  and  a  wide  range  of 
accessories  to  suit  the  prejudice  of  those  who  preferred 
their  Sunday  afternoon  tipple  hot  or  cold. 

"It's  so  foolish  for  the  Fourth  to  come  on  Sunday — 
and  have  to  save  up  all  your  fire-crackers  till  tomorrow," 
the  child  began  disconsolately,  choosing  a  macaroon  from 
the  embarrassing  variety  of  small  cakes  in  the  silver 
basket.  "Hal  says  the  Governor  can't  come;  but  there 
will  be  a  better  orator  to  spread  the  eagle  in  the  stadium. 
He  didn't  ask  me  to  go  with  him  and  Eileen." 

"I  thought  all  three  of  my  daughters  were  going  with 
me,"  David  pleaded,  his  eyes  seeking  Eileen's.  But  Syl- 
via dispensed  with  argument: 

"No,  mamma  said  I  was  to  take  Theo  to  the  stadium 
with  us.  There  isn't  room  for  her  in  Hal's  little  car. 
And  besides,  I  know  how  I  used  to  hate  to  have  the 
younger  children  tagging  after  me,  when  I  was  having 
company.  I've  asked  Dr.  Schubert  and  Syd  to  join  us, 
and  they'll  come  home  for  a  spread,  after  the  celebration. 
Mrs.  Ascott,  I  hope  you'll  come,  too.  I  have  already 
asked  Hal.  Syd  has  promised  to  help  me  with  the  serv- 
ing. He  ought  to  make  some  woman  a  good  husband — 
the  training  I  gave  him  when  we  were  growing  up." 


XIX    A  Web  in  the  Moonlight 

i 

Judith  was  glad,  afterward,  that  the  responsibility  for 
Eileen  had  been  lifted  from  David  Trench's  shoulders, 
howsoever  humiliating  the  conditions  might  be.  All  that 
would  have  made  for  guidance  had  long  since  been 
wrested  from  his  hands,  and  the  inevitable  pain  would  be 
robbed  of  the  corrosive  quality  of  self-reproach.  She 
wondered  what  he  was  thinking,  that  portentous  Mon- 
day evening,  as  he  gazed  past  her  and  Theodora  to  the 
row  of  seats  across  the  aisle  where  Hal  and  Eileen  sat, 
munching  ,popcorn  and  making  audible  comments  on  the 
speeches,  comments  that  bubbled  with  cleverness  not  al- 
ways refined  in  its  quality. 

Just  as  the  perspiring  statesman  appeared  on  the  flag- 
draped  platform,  bearing  a  message  from  the  Governor 
of  the  state,  Dr.  Schubert  and  his  son  came  down  the  aisle, 
looking  to  right  and  left  with  searching  eyes.  Theodora 
stood  on  tiptoe  to  signal  them.  There  was  a  shifting  of 
the  original  seating  arrangement,  so  that  Sydney  and  Syl- 
via might  be  together.  The  first  few  sentences  of  the 
florid  oration  were  lost  in  the  general  confusion,  and 
when  Judith  looked  again  into  the  row  of  seats  across  the 
aisle,  two  places  were  vacant.  Hal  and  Eileen  had  gone. 

II 

After  the  fireworks  the  town  went  home.  Sydney 
Schubert  walked  with  Sylvia,  talking  of  other  Fourth  of 
July  experiences  in  a  tone  from  which  the  restraint  of  the 

146 


A  Web  in  the  Moonlight          147 

disappointed  lover  was  wholly  wanting.  David  played 
sweetheart  to  Theodora,  a  role  that  had  been  developed 
by  long  practice.  It  came  to  Judith,  walking  behind 
them  with  Lary  and  Dr.  Schubert,  that  David  Trench 
was  essentially  a  lover — and  love  must  have  something  to 
feed  upon. 

"Will  we  wait  for  Eileen?"  he  asked,  when  the  feast 
had  been  prepared. 

"They'll  be  here  any  minute,"  Sylvia  cried  flippantly. 
Then,  in  a  voice  that  echoed  her  mother's  objurgatory 
habit  of  speech:  "For  goodness'  sake,  papa,  stop  worry- 
ing about  that  girl.  She's  old  enough  to  take  care  of 
herself.  Syd  and  I  were  traipsing  all  over  the  country 
when  I  was  her  age,  and  I  can't  remember  that  you  sat  up 
nights  worrying  about  me." 

"Young  Marksley  isn't  Sydney  Schubert,"  her  father 
reminded  her. 

Ill 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  the  merry  party  separated,  and 
still  no  Eileen.  A  light  rain  was  falling,  and  the  coat 
closet  must  be  searched  for  umbrellas.  Lary  lingered  at 
Judith  Ascott's  door,  unwilling  to  say  good  night.  Some 
misshapen  apprehension  that  had  tormented  him  all  even- 
ing struggled  for  expression. 

"Do  you  believe,  Judith,  that  whatever  is,  is  right?" 

"I  can  recall  the  time,  less  than  six  months  ago,  when  I 
was  convinced  that  whatever  is — is  wrong,"  she  an- 
swered, mystified. 

"And  now?"  He  searched  her  face,  there  in  the  moist 
dusk  of  the  veranda.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  with 
something  of  Theo's  kindling  animation:  "I  don't  know 
what  you  have  done  to  me.  A  moment  ago  I  was  facing 
a  great  onrushing  wall  of  black  water.  And  all  at  once 


148  Indian  Summer 

it  has  broken  into  ripples  of  silver  joy.  Last  night  I 
watched  a  great  black  and  yellow  spider,  playing  with  his 
web  in  the  moonlight.  He  was  such  a  handsome,  ca- 
pable fellow — and  the  moth  was  so  blunderingly  stupid. 
I  wondered  if  there  were  not  something  to  be  said  in 
favour  of  the  spider.  But — you  will  think  me  a  fatalist, 
if  I  finish  the  thought  I  had  in  mind.  You  will  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  not,  in  the  least?" 

"No,  Lary,  I  will  not  believe  you — one  whit  more  than 
I  can  believe  that  it  was  an  empty  accident  that  brought 
me  to  Springdale — to  Vine  Cottage — four  months  ago. 
You  and  Eileen  and  I  are  caught  in  the  web.  The  spider 
is  Fate.  I  begged  the  gods  to  burn  my  fingers  with  the 
fire  of  life  .  .  .  and  they  heard  my  prayer.  .  .  ." 

"You  delicious  pagan!  I  might  fancy  gentle  Clotho 
spinning  a  silken  strand  for  you.  But  to  sear  your  fin- 
gers— "  He  caught  them  and  pressed  them  to  his  lips. 
Then  he  hurried  across  the  lawn  in  a  panic,  his  bare  head 
wet  with  the  summer  rain.  Judith  looked  after  him, 
Sylvia's  best  umbrella  in  her  hand.  She  wanted  to  call 
him  back,  but  it  would  only  mean  a  double  wetting.  And 
Sylvia  need  not  know. 

She  went  up  to  her  room  but  not  to  sleep.  Taking 
down  the  thick  coils  of  her  pale  chestnut  hair,  she  braided 
it  deliberately.  A  strand,  blown  across  her  face  by  the 
breeze  from  the  west  window,  reminded  her,  all  at  once, 
of  the  web.  She  relaxed  weakly  on  a  hassock,  watching 
the  glittering  drops  on  the  edge  of  the  awning  that 
shaded  her  window  from  the  afternoon  sun.  Was  the 
web  inevitable  .  .  .  Fate?  As  yet  she  was  free.  Could 
she  view  with  equanimity  a  future  that  involved,  not 
Lary  and  his  two  young  sisters,  but  those  others  who 
were  of  his  flesh?  Could  she  bear  the  heartache  that  was 
David  Trench?  .Could  she.  .  .  .  Her  head  drooped 


A  Web  in  the  Moonlight          149 

low  on  the  window  sill  and  her  mind  drifted  rudderless  on 
a  sea  of  dreams. 

IV 

When  Hal  and  Eileen  left  the  stadium  it  was  in  ac- 
cordance with  a  prearranged  plan  to  meet  Ina  and  Kitten 
and  two  of  the  boys  who  had  contrived  the  loan  of  a 
touring  car  for  the  evening.  They  would  drive  to  Olive 
Hill  for  the  celebration — the  exciting  part  of  it.  Com- 
petitive drilling,  not  in  gaudy  uniforms,  but  that  more 
useful  drilling  that  had  to  do  with  ledges  of  shale  and 
limestone.  It  was  at  best  but  a  poor  imitation  of  the 
annual  drill  contest  in  the  gold  mining  country,  where 
powerful  muscles  contended  with  steel  bitted  drills 
against  the  tough  impediment  of  granite.  Here  the 
very  ledge  had  to  be  faked — removed  from  the  nearby 
hillside  with  infinite  care,  and  mounted  against  an  impro- 
vised wall  of  mine  refuse.  It  was  the  best  the  coal  mines 
of  Illinois  could  afford,  but  it  served  its  purpose.  There 
were  money  prizes  and  lesser  trophies — geese,  chickens 
a,nd  baskets  of  provisions. 

The  contest  finished,  there  was  a  dance  in  the  pavilion. 
Hal  had  parked  his  roadster  where  he  and  Eileen  could 
watch  the  antics  of  the  dancers.  He  was  not  sorry  when 
he  learned  that  the  borrowed  car  must  be  returned  by 
midnight,  and  the  others  must  be  on  their  way  towards 
Springdale.  He  and  Eileen  would  be  following  in  a  little 
while,  he  said. 

"I've  been  trying  all  evening  to  dodge  them,"  he 
added,  as,  he  waved  farewell  to  the  departing  car. 
"Some  people  simply  can't  take  a  hint." 

The  girl  nestled  close.  "Just  you  and  me  ...  all 
alone  in  the  universe." 

"Sweetheart,"  Hal  slipped  his  arm  around  her  waist 


150  Indian  Summer 

and  laid  his  cheek  against  hers,  "it's  all  fixed  with  my 
father.  He's  set  on  having  me  go  to  Pratt;  but  he's 
agreed  on  an  allowance  that  ought  to  take  care  of  two. 
We're  in  luck  that  you  can  cook.  And  you  won't  mind 
a  little  flat?  I  can  count  on  Adelaide  to  help  us  out  if  we 
get  in  a  pinch.  Of  course  my  mother'll  raise  Cain — and 
I'll  be  on  the  lookout  for  a  job,  from  the  start.  If  they 
think  I'm  going  to  wait  all  that  time  for  you — why,  I 
can't,  Eileen!" 

The  girl's  breath  came  so  thick,  it  choked  her.  The 
dancers  swam  dizzily  before  her  eyes.  The  saplings  in 
the  little  grove  took  up  the  dance,  swaying  with  uncertain 
rhythm,  their  lithe  trunks  bending  to  the  tumult  in  her 
brain.  "Do  you  love  me  well  enough  to  get  along  that 
way  for  a  year  or  two?  Will  you  come  to  me,  sweetheart, 
when  I  send  for  you?" 

And  then  the  rain.  Men  and  women  went  scurrying 
to  places  of  shelter.  The  thin  grove,  the  pavilion  with 
its  dilapidated  roof,  the  mine  house — whose  inner  spaces 
were  always  barred  to  the  public  as  soon  as  the  last  work- 
man had  gone — these  offered  meagre  protection.  Over 
there  behind  the  mine  dump  was  a  corn  crib  and  feed 
room  where  provender  for  the  now  obsolete  pit  mules 
had  formerly  been  kept.  No  one  else  had  thought  of 
this  refuge.  Hal  and  Eileen  were  alone,  the  rain 
pounding  on  the  rusty  tin  roof  to  the  tune  of  their  madly 
beating  hearts. 

V 

How  long  Judith  lay  asleep  she  did  not  know.  She 
was  aroused  at  length  by  voices,  so  close  that  they  seemed 
to  emanate  from  the  lawn  beneath  her  window.  She 
tried  to  move.  Her  arm,  her  neck,  her  shoulder  creaked 
with  pain.  She  must  have  been  there  in  that  cramped 


A  Web  in  the  Moonlight          151 

position  a  long  time.  Her  hair  and  her  thin  negligee 
were  quite,  damp.  As  her  scattered  senses  collected 
themselves  she  realized  that  the  sound  came  from  beyond 
the  wall.  A  voice,  hoarse  with  rapture,  Eileen's  voice, 
murmured  over  and  over: 

"Oh,  darling,  I  never  knew  I  loved  you  until  now." 
Some  high  platitude  touching  manly  fidelity  punctuated 
the  girl's  impassioned  utterance.  The  facade  of  the 
house  lay  in  ghostly  shadows  that  enveloped  the  figures 
completely.  But  out  there  across  the  lawn  lay  the  white 
moonlight,  frosting  the  wet  grass  with  a  shimmering  in- 
crustation of  unearthly  jewels.  Hal  Marksley's  sub- 
stantial form  came  like  a  skulking  wraith  from  the 
gloom,  gliding  along  the  thin  edge  of  the  shadow  until  he 
reached  a  convenient  screen  of  shrubs,  vaulted  over  the 
wall  and  crossed  close  beneath  Judith's  casement.  He 
was  cranking  the  reluctant  engine  of  his  motor  car,  out 
there  in  the  side  street,  as  the  clock  in  the  chapel  tower 
struck  three. 

VI 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  Eileen  came  down  stairs,  re- 
fused breakfast  and  wandered  listlessly  out  into  the  hot 
July  air.  She  was  pale  and  her  full  lips  were  swollen. 
Her  eyes  were  set  in  murky  pools  of  shadow,  as  yellow 
as  ochre,  beneath  their  screen  of  long  lashes,  and  her 
blond  braids  hung  stiff  and  obdurate.  As  she  entered 
the  summer  house,  Theodora  greeted  her  with  a  derisive 
gesture. 

"Lady  Judith,  tell  her  what  she  missed.  I  never  saw 
the  automobile  yet  that  could  take  me  away  from  such  a 
lobster  salad." 

"Perhaps  she  didn't  know  about  it." 

"Indeed  she  did.     She  made  the  mayonnaise  herself. 


152  Indian  Summer 

Sylvia  can't  hit  it  one  time  in  three.  And  mamma  and 
Drusilla  .  .  .  the  oil  always  separates,  on  them." 

"Separates  on  them!"  Eileen  sniffed.  "Where  do  you 
get  that  line  of  talk?" 

She  had  relaxed  on  the  oaken  bench  and  sat  kicking  the 
gravel  with  the  toe  of  her  loose  slipper.  After  a  time 
she  broke  the  sullen  silence : 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  discourteous  to  you,  Lady  Judith. 
That's  what  Sylvia  scolded  me  about;  but  that  wasn't 
what  she  had  in  mind.  She's  sore  because  I  didn't  bring 
Hal  to  her  party.  I  knew  what  kind  of  a  frosty 
shoulder  he'd  get  from  Lary  and  papa.  And  the  way 
she  fawns  over  him !  It  makes  me  sick.  He  hates  to  be 
toadied  to — because  his  people  have  money.  He  knows 
that  if  he  didn't  have  a  rich  father,  mamma  and  Sylvia 
wouldn't  think  any  more  of  him  than  Lary  does.  He'd 
take  me  away  from  that  house  today,  if  he  had  his  way 
about  it.  He  knows  what  I'm  in  for  .  .  .  Sylvia  to 
order  me  around  for  a  month.  I  almost  wish  mamma 
hadn't  gone  to  Bromfield." 


XX     Red  Dawn 

i 

For  a  day  or  two  Eileen  was  abstracted  and  moody,  a 
flaccid  resignation  taking  the  place  of  the  high  spiritual 
enthusiasm  that  ushered  in  her  surrender.  But  it  was 
not  in  the  girl's  nature  to  remain  long  depressed.  She 
could  not,  as  Lavinia  did,  nurture  a  grouch  to  its  final 
fruition.  Her  return  to  normal  was  accompanied  by  a 
sequence  of  quarrels  with  her  elder  sister,  and  she  shunned 
her  father  with  studied  aversion.  Hal  resumed  his 
old  habit  of  asking  her  to  meet  him  on  the  campus  or 
around  the  corner  on  Sherman  Avenue.  "To  escape 
Sylvia's  sticky  patronage,"  she  explained  to  Mrs.  Ascott. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week  she  went  with  Theodora 
to  the  shady  west  porch  of  Vine  Cottage,  to  assist  with 
the  drawing  of  innumerable  threads  and  the  hemming  of 
a  fresh  supply  of  napkins  for  the  two  linen  closets.  Her 
lap  was  overflowing  with  damask  when  the  postman's 
whistle  shrilled  through  the  sultry  morning  air.  Theo 
bounded  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  wide  with  excitement. 
The  coming  of  the  postman  was  always  an  adventure, 
vicarious  but  none  the  less  interesting.  Some  day  he 
might  bring.  .  .  .  No,  she  was  not  expecting  letters  for 
herself.  But  Lary  had  sent  away  a  poem  and  an  essay. 
And  then,  there  ought  to  be  a  long  letter  for  daddy.  As 
yet  there  had  been  nothing  but  a  stingy  post  card,  with 
the  hackneyed  old  Niagara  Falls  on  one  side  and  on  the 
other  that  offensive  old  cliche :  "Will  write  soon."  And 

153 


154  Indian  Summer 

mamma  had  sent  such  attractive  cards  to  all  the  others, 
not  omitting  Nanny  and  Mrs.  Button. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  came  slowly  back,  all  the  joy 
gone  out  of  her  face.  There  was  a  long  envelope  ad- 
dressed to  Mr. ,  Larimore  Trench.  She  inverted  the 
hateful  thing  in  Judith's  lap.  Letters  of  acceptance  did 
not  come  in  long  envelopes.  There  was  another  one, 
square  and  perfumed,  bearing  the  name,  Mrs.  Raoul 
Ascott.  Who  was  this  Raoul  Ascott,  that  he  should  in- 
trude here? 

"The  dead  have  had  their  shining  day; 

Why  should  they  try 
To  listen  to  the  words  we  say 
And  breathe  their  blight  upon  our  May 

While  the  winds  sigh  ?" 

She  had  read  the  stanza  in  the  back  of  one  of  Sylvia's 
books  .  .  .  written  while  Sylvia  was  temporarily  en- 
grossed with  a  young  professor  whose  spouse  had  dlied. 
But,  after  all,  it  wasn't  quite  fair  to  feel  that  way  about 
people  who  couldn't  help  being  remembered.  And  Mr. 
Ascott  had  vacated  the  place  that  belonged  rightfully  to 
Lary.  The  third  letter  was  from  mamma.  It  bore, 
in  Lavinia's  cramped  writing,  the  name  of  Mrs.  Oliver 
Penrose.  The  little  girl  raged  impotently  as  she  called 
her  sister. 

II 

Sylvia  pushed  Eileen  none  too  gently  aside,  to  make 
room  for  herself  in  the  hammock  beside  Mrs.  Ascott. 
Then  she  fell  upon  her  letter,  reading  aloud  such  pas- 
sages as  involved  no  violation  of  the  family's  privacy. 
The  journey  had  been  hot  and  dusty — not  a  familiar 
face  on  the  train  from  beginning  to  end.  Theodore  had 
met  her  in  Rochester  with  the  new  car,  and  she  had  en- 


Red  Dawn  155 

joyed  the  first  part  of  the  ride,  along  the  Genesee.  She 
was  glad  Ellen  was  not  along.  It  gave  Ted  a  chance  to 
tell  her  ever  so  many  things,  that  she  would  otherwise 
not  have  heard. 

Ellen  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  Stone  scandal. 
Everybody  felt  sorry  for  Calvin.  For  her  part,  she 
thought  he  got  only  what  he  deserved.  She  had  not  seen 
him,  as  yet.  His  life  was  a  terrible  example  of  the  con- 
sequences of  sin.  She  hoped  he  had  not  forgotten  how 
she  tried  for  years  to  lead  him  into  the  church.  She 
might  remind  him  of  this,  when  she  saw  him  .  .  .  for 
Ellen  had  invited  him — oh,  much  against  her  own  wishes 
—to  have  dinner  with  them  Sunday. 

As  Sylvia  read,  the  long  envelope  addressed  to  Mr. 
Larimore  Trench  slipped  from  Judith's  lap  and  fell  to 
the  floor.  Eileen  stooped  to  restore  it. 

"Whee-oo!  Lary'll  be  down  in  the  back  cellar,  eating 
coal  to  warm  his  heart,"  she  cried.  "It  certainly  does 
take  the  tuck  out  of  him  to  have  the  editors  give  him  the 
back-fire." 

"I  can  imagine  what  you  mean,"  Mrs.  Ascott  smiled, 
"but  you  are  wrong  in  your  surmise.  This  is  not  a  re- 
jected manuscript.  It  is  a  business  letter  from  one  of 
my  attorneys — not  Mr.  Ramsay." 

That  evening,  just  as  Hal  and  Eileen  were  driving 
away  in  the  little  roadster,  with  Sylvia  watching  them 
from  a  third-floor  window,  Lary  sprang  nimbly  over  the 
wall  and  hurried  to  the  summer  house,  the  long  envelope 
in  his  hand.  His  feet  scarce  touched  the  grass  ...  he 
walked  like  Theodora  in  her  most  charming  mood. 

"It's  the  contract  for  the  plans.  I  couldn't  wait  to 
let  you  know.  It  might  have  been  the  other  thing.  I 
wouldn't  let  myself  see  how  eager  I  was  for  ...  sue- 


156  Indian  Summer 

cess.  Mr.  Sanderson  says  they  are  charmed  with  the 
whole  arrangement.  They  want  me  to  come  to  New 
York  at  once  for  a  conference.  His  daughter  doesn't 
care  about  the  cow  barn — since  she  isn't  operating  a 
dairy.  They  would  like  to  have  me  substitute  a  studio, 
somewhere  out  in  the  woods.  It  appears  that  the  bride- 
to-be  is  a  sculptor." 

"Yes,  she  and  Hilda  Travers  were  in  Paris  together — • 
but  of  course  you  don't  know  about  Hilda." 

A  queer,  chilly  feeling  crept  over  Judith  Ascott.  She 
had  forgotten  Hilda.  She  had  forgotten  everything. 
It  all  belonged  to'  another  world,  a  story  she  had  read 
in  a  book  on  an  idle  summer's  day. 

"You  didn't — let  the  Marksleys  have  the  cow  barn?" 
she  faltered. 

"No." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't.  A  lower  nature  than  yours 
would  have  taken  a  mean  revenge — by  letting  the  dwell- 
ing of  cattle  shame  the  manor  house." 

"It  wasn't  that,  Judith.  They  offered  me  a  stiff  price 
for  that  one  set  of  plans,  and  I  needed  the  money.  But 
.  .  .  seeing  anything  of  mine  in  that  environment  of 
cairngorms  would  make  me  feel  the  way  it  does  to  see 
Eileen  running  around  with  that — "  He  checked  him- 
self, and  the  slow  red — Lavinia's  red  that  betokened 
impotent  rage — crept  above  the  line  of  his  collar. 

"When  are  they  going  to  begin  building?  The  San- 
dersons, I  mean." 

"Immediately.  They  want  me  to  go  over  the  ground 
and  outline  the  landscape  features.  I  shall  probably  be 
back  and  forth  the  rest  of  the  summer.  They  have 
asked  me  to  serve  in  the  capacity  of  supervising  architect. 
We  don't  do  things  that  way  in  Springdale.  But  I  have 
helped  my  father — long  before  I  was  out  of  college — so 


Red  Dawn  157 

I  have  all  the  necessary  experience.  The  only  difference 
is  that  Mr.  Sanderson  will  pay  me  a  fee  and  flaunt  my 
name  on  sign-boards  all  over  the  estate.  I  may  as  well 
get  used  to  that  part  of  it.  I  have  always  insisted  that 
my  father  use  his  name,  as  contractor,  in  connection  with 
the  actual  work.  It's  a  distinction  I  never  relished. 
But  if  I'm  going  to  invade  the  New  York  field — " 

"I'm  so  happy.     Have  you  told  Sylvia?" 

"No,  I  told  the  baby."   ' 

"That  was  dear,  Lary." 

Larimore  Trench  turned  to  look  at  her.  The  blue- 
grey  eyes  were  suffused  and  the  sweet  lips  trembled. 
The  man  wondered  why  he  had  no  impulse  to  kiss  so 
engaging  a  mouth.  It  was  all  spiritual,  that  strange 
contact  that  he  was  experiencing  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life.  Then,  too,  kissing  had  always  been  associated  with 
his  mother,  the  outward  symbol  of  a  bond  he  knew  did 
not  exist. 

"I  am  going  down  to  the  office  to  talk  it  over  with  papa. 
They  have  asked  for  an  immediate  answer  by  wire.  It 
is  not  necessary  to  tell  you  what  the  answer  will  be. 
Won't  you  come  with  me?  I'll  turn  the  electric  fan  on 
you  while  we  talk  shop." 

"But,  Lary,  won't  I  be  horribly  in  the  way?" 

"How  could  the  other  half  of  me  be  in  the  way?  Don't 
you  see,  dear,  you  must  be  with  me  when  my  father  has 
the  proudest  moment  of  his  life.  This  will  be  the  anti- 
dote for  all  that  Marksley  poison  in  his  soul." 


XXI    The  Cloud  on  the  Horizon 


That  night  Theodora  wrote  a  long  letter  to  her 
mother.  It  was  devoted  almost  wholly  to  Lary's 
triumph.  The  following  week  the  Bromfield  Sentinel 
heralded  on  its  front  page  the  news  of  Mr.  Larimore 
Trench's  latest  artistic  Success.  The  florid  paragraph 
hinted  of  other  successes.  One  must  not  infer  that  the 
designing  of  a  New  York  millionaire's  country  home  was 
a  novel  experience  to  the  brilliant  young  architect,  whose 
parents  were  natives  of  Bromfield.  The  item  ended  with 
the  announcement  that  Mrs.  David  Trench  was  a  guest 
in  the  home  of  her  brother,  "the  Honourable  T.  J.  Lari- 


more." 


"Whew !  we'd  better  confiscate  this  thing  before  Lary 
sees  it,"  Eileen  ejaculated.  "Mamma  always  could  pull 
the  long  bow;  but  she  pretty  near  overshot  herself  this 
time.  You'd  think  Lary  was  a  corporation." 

"Would  Sylvia  be  vexed?"  Judith  asked.  Sylvia  was 
out  riding  with  Dr.  Schubert  when  the  garrulous  sheet 
left  the  postman's  hand. 

"Yes  .  .  .  because  it  smacks  of  the  small  town.  She 
hasn't  any  better  taste  than  mamma  has.  It  wouldn't 
jolt  her  the  way  it  would  Lary  or  papa.  Lady  Judith, 
I  used  to  cringe  and  sweat  blood  when  Hal  said  crass 
things  before  Lary.  Now  it  doesn't  matter  what  my 
brother  thinks.  I  want  to  shout  Hal  from  the  house- 
tops. I  don't  care  who  knows  that  we  love  each  other, 
and  that  we  have  broken  all  the  silly  shackles  that  our 

158 


The  Cloud  on  the  Horizon        159 

stodgy  civilization  thinks  are  so  important.  Papa  dis- 
likes him  because  he  isn't  the  Sunday  school  kind,  and 
Lary  says  he's  crude  and  common.  Well,  just  the  way 
he  is  ...  is  exactly  right  for  me.  I'm  no  Dresden 
china  shepherdess,  myself.  How  would  I  feel,  marry- 
ing a  man  who  couldn't  stand  for  a  little  slang — or  ex- 
pressing your  real  feelings,  now  and  then?  With  such  a 
man  as  Lary  or  Syd  Schubert,  I'd  be  a  fish  out  of  water." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  a  fish?"  Judith  asked 
searchingly.  "Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  my  dear,  that 
you  have  been  in  the  water  with  Hal  until  you  fancy 
yourself  a  fish  of  his  kind?  Aren't  you  afraid  that  you'll 
be  tossed  up  on  the  bank  some  day,  a  little  drowned 
bird?" 

"No !  No !"  Eileen  screamed,  her  cheeks  blanching. 
"Don't  take  all  the  glory,  all  the  wonder  out  of  it. 
Don't  you  understand  that  I  am  free?  You  talk  about 
slave-women.  Men  don't  make  slaves  of  them.  It  is 
-  their  own  selfishness  that  chains  them.  I  wish  I  could 
pour  out  my  heart  to  you  .  .  .  make  you  see  it  as  I  do. 
Not  the  sordid  thing  that  love  usually  is — Sylvia's  love 
for  Oliver,  that  jpays  for  a  swell  apartment  and  a  bundle 
of  gaudy  rags.  I  want  to  be  free,  and  I  want  to  show 
other  women  the  light." 

"My  dear,  dear  girl,"  Mrs.  Ascott  cried  in  alarm, 
"you  are  only  sixteen.  You  haven't  even  the  rudiments 
of  the  system  you  are  trying  to  teach.  Can't  you  get 
your  feet  on  solid  ground  and  stay  there  until  you  are 
a  few  years  older?  I  was  wrong  when  I  suggested  water. 
You  are  up  in  the  clouds.  If  I  thought  it  would  serve 
to  deter  you  from  this  madness,  Eileen,  I  would  open  for 
you  the  darkest  chapter  of  my  life." 

"I  know  .  .  .  already.  I  heard  mamma  telling  papa 
that  you  were  divorced — that  you  tried  to  get  even  with 


160  Indian  Summer 

your  husband  by  running  away  with  another  man.  It 
was  contemptible  of  me  to  listen;  but  I  did  it  because  I 
wanted  to  see  how  bad  she  would  make  it  out." 

Judith  Ascott's  face  flamed. 

"And  papa  was  quiet  a  long  time — and  then  he  said 
that  there  were  some  people  who  could  touch  pitch  and 
not  be  defiled.  When  he  said  that — it  got  me  by  the 
heart,  and  I  made  a  little  gurgling  noise  in  my  throat. 
I  was  sure  they  heard  me.  But  mamma  flared  back  at 
him  so  furiously  that  I  was  half  way  down  the  stairs 
before  they  came  out  of  their  room.  That  was  several 
weeks  ago — a  few  days  after  you  told  her.  And  I  won- 
dered how  it  would  affect  him — towards  you." 

"And—" 

"The  next  morning  at  breakfast,  he  said  you  were  the 
purest,  noblest  woman  he  had  met  in  years.  And  Theo 
and  Lary  and  I  all  raised  such  a  chorus  of  approval 
that  mamma  ran  out  to  the  kitchen  to  tell  Drusilla  that 
the  waffles  were  tough." 

An  arm  stole  around  the  girl's  waist.  What  had 
come  over  Judith  Ascott,  that  she  should  care  .  .  .  that 
David  Trench's  approval  should  mean  so  much?  But 
Eileen  misunderstood.  In  a  sudden  burst  of  confidence, 
she  whispered : 

"Will  you  take  care  of  the  wedding  ring,  along  with 
the  other?" 

"You  are  married!" 

"No,  but  we  are  going  to  be,  before  Hal  leaves  for 
college.  We  finally  decided  .  .  .  last  night.  Then  I 
am  going  to  him  as  soon  as  he  is  settled  in  Brooklyn. 
Of  course  his  mother  must  not  know." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  this,  you  poor,  infatuated 
child.  Give  Hal  the  advantage  of  a  little  perspective. 
Look  at  him  when  he  comes  home  for  the  holidays.  It 


The  Cloud  on  the  Horizon        161 

isn't  a  summer  romance — or  a  drama,  to  be  disposed 
of  in  the  fourth  act." 

"But  what  if  he  saw  some  girl  in  Brooklyn  he  liked 
better  than  me?" 

"Then  you  couldn't  possibly  hold  him — if  you  were 
ten  times  married.  That  is  just  the  danger.  You  and 
Hal  will  almost  surely  grow  apart  when  you  are  removed 
from  identical  influences.  A  year  from  now  you  may 
detest  him,  and  he  is  more  than  likely  to  lose  interest  in 
you." 

Eileen  sprang  up  and  ran  stumbling  from  the  room. 

II 

When  she  returned,  an  hour  later,  her  eyes  were  red 
and  swollen  from  crying.  She  went  straight  to  the  tele- 
phone and  took  down  the  receiver.  She  wanted  Hal  to 
come  to  Mrs.  Ascott's  home  at  once.  When  the  youth 
had  yielded  reluctant  assent,  she  threw  herself  down  on 
the  window  seat  to  wait. 

"I  am  going  to  have  an  adjustment,"  she  cried  pas- 
sionately. "It  can't  go  on  this  way.  I  was  so  sure  of 
my  ground  .  .  .  and  every  word  you  said  was  .  .  .  just 
one  puncture  after  another.  I  could  fairly  feel  the  tires 
sagging  under  me.  Once  I  was  on  the  point  of  writing 
to  mamma.  She's  the  only  one  who  agrees  with  me  about 
Hal.  Even  Sylvia  has  been  throwing  cold  water  on  me, 
the  last  day  or  two.  Says  I  could  do  better — and  I 
ought  to  go  around  with  the  other  boys  to  show  him  I 
don't  care.  I  won't  be  a  liar.  I  do  care!" 

When  young  Marksley  came  into  Mrs.  Ascott's  pres- 
ence, there  was  a  shamed  droop  to  his  shoulders  and  he 
was  plainly  embarrassed. 

"Hal,  I  have  told  her  everything,"  Eileen  began. 
"Now  I  want  you  to — " 


162  Indian  Summer 

"You  little  fool!" 

Judith  Ascott  sprang  to  her  feet,  but  the  youth  was  al- 
ready striving  to  cover  his  blunder  by  an  avalanche  of 
apology.  The  expression  was  out  of  his  mouth  before 
he  had  time  to  think.  He  was  shocked  that  Eileen 
should  betray  a  secret  they  had  sworn  to  keep.  He 
hadn't  meant  to  be  rude.  He  was  stunned  by  her  treach- 
ery. 

"Well,  we  aren't  married  yet.  I  only  told  her  we 
intended  to  be — and  wanted  her  to  witness  the  ceremony, 
before  you  leave  for  college." 

Hal  Marksley's  chest  collapsed  in  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"When  we  get  ready  to  be  married,  Mrs.  Ascott,  we'll 
talk  it  over  with  you.  Now,  Eileen,  run  home  and  get 
your  motor  bonnet.  I  have  to  drive  to  Olive  Hill  on 
an  errand  for  father.  I  left  my  car  around  the  corner." 

Ill 

At  the  side  door  of  the  Trench  home,  the  girl  had  a 
sharp  tilt  with  her  sister,  who  had  come  back  from  the 
ride  in  time  to  see — and  interpret — the  tear-stained  face. 
Sylvia  would  write  to  her  mother.  She  would  not  con- 
tinue to  sponsor  a  love  affair  for  a  girl  who  had  no  sense. 
She  would  not  play  chaperone  at  long  range.  If  Hal  had 
any  breeding,  he  would  invite  her  to  go  with  them. 

"Oh,  that's  the  rub !"  Eileen  sneered. 

"No,  that  isn't  the  rub — and  I  might  have  known  you 
wouldn't  appreciate  anything  I  tried  to  do  for  you.  If 
you  keep  on,  the  way  you're  going,  you'll  have  Hal  so 
sick  and  tired  of  you  that  he'll  be  glad  to  get  out  of  reach 
of  the  telephone.  I  tried  to  make  you  a  little  indifferent 
to  him — and  got  insolence  for  my  pains.  If  you  had  a 
grain  of  policy,  you  wouldn't  let  him  see  that  you  are 
daft  about  him.  That's  no  way  to  hold  a  man's  love.  I 


The  Cloud  on  the  Horizon        163 

kept  Syd  Schubert  dangling  at  my  belt  for  four  years  by 
letting  him  half  way  think  I  cared." 

"Yes,  and  you  lost  Tom  Henderson  by  the  same  tac- 
tics. Tom  wanted  whole  hog  or  none,  and  you  didn't  get 
on  to  the  fact  till  he'd  got  sick  of  you." 

"Don't,  for  heaven's  sake,  use  such  vulgar  expressions. 
Hal  is  such  a  gentleman,  I  don't  see  how  he  stands  you. 
Eileen,  I  wish  you  would  see  that  I  am  doing  this  for 
your  own  good — and  to  please  mamma.  I  have  had  ex- 
perience, and  I  know  what  works  with  a  man,  nine  times 
out  of  ten.  I'll  hold  Oliver  Penrose  to  the  end  of  the 
world  ...  by  keeping  him  guessing.  Look  at  the  way 
mamma  has  kept  papa  on  his  knees  for  nearly  twenty- 
eight  years." 

"You  think  that  a  fine  thing?"  the  girl  flared.  "If 
you  pattern  your  life  after  mamma's,  at  her  age  you'll  be 
as  hard  and  cruel — " 

"You  outrageous,  you  impudent—  Words  failed. 
"How  do  you  dare  speak  that  way  about  your  parents? 
And  Theo's  almost  as  bad.  At  your  age,  I  never 
dreamed  of  being  disrespectful,  or  saying  a  word  back 
when  mamma  reproved  me." 

"Oh,  Sylvia,  come  off !  Mamma  says  she  never  talked 
back  to  her  mother.  And  then  she  forgets,  and  tells  the 
impudent  things  she  used  to  say — and  how  her  grand- 
mother Larimore  took  her  part  against  all  the  rest  of 
the  family.  But  there's  Hal,  tooting  his  horn  for  me. 
I'll  ask  him  to  invite  you  to  ride  with  us  some  evening 
next  week.  I'm  sure  he'll  be  charmed!" 


XXII    Midsummer  Magic 

i 

Life  moved  on  another  fortnight,  with  little  to  vary 
the  monotony  of  motor  rides,  luncheons,  and  irritating 
disputes,  and  all  at  once  Sylvia's  reason  for  prolonging 
her  visit  in  Springdale  was  removed.  Lavinia  Trench 
came  home !  She  startled  the  girls  by  driving  up  to 
the  gate  in  Hafferty's  lumbering  old  cab,  her  trunk  top- 
pling precariously  on  the  driver's  seat  and  her  trim  body 
hemmed  in  between  boxes  and  travelling  bags.  A  letter 
that  had  arrived  that  very  morning  announced  that  she 
would  yield  to  Ellen's  pleading  that  she  remain  another 
week — unless  she  were  greatly  needed  at  home. 

Without  waiting  for  the  ceremony  of  the  bath  and  a 
change  of  raiment,  she  hurried  to  Vine  Cottage  to  pre- 
sent the  souvenir  she  had  brought  from  Rochester.  Ju- 
dith forgot  to  thank  her,  so  amazed  was  she  by  the  as- 
tounding change  in  the  woman's  countenance.  Such  a 
change  she  had  witnessed  in  her  garden  when  Button, 
with  hoe  and  fine-toothed  rake,  had  obliterated  the  ridges 
and  hummocks  of  his  spading.  All  that  had  been  La- 
vinia was  gone.  It  was  not  that  she  looked  girlish,  re- 
juvenated. In  the  past  few  months  she  had  made  many 
swift  changes  from  youth  to  age — had  rebounded  from 
dank  depression  to  hysterical  buoyancy.  This  change 
was  different.  It  was,  in  fact,  as  if  Lavinia  had  lent  her 
body  to  some  other  woman. 

"I  can't  stay  a  minute,"  she  fluttered.  "My  precious 
old  sweetheart  is  coming  home  early,  and  he  thinks  no 

164 


Midsummer  Magic  165 

one  can  cook  chicken  the  way  I  can.  You  ought  to  have 
heard  him  when  I  called  him  on  the  'phone,  a  minute  ago. 
I  thought  he'd  let  the  receiver  fall,  he  was  so  astonished 
.  .  .  and  pleased." 

II 

During  the  next  few  days  Judith  forgot  Eileen,  well- 
nigh  forgot  Lary,  in  her  perplexed  contemplation  of  their 
mother.  Some  thaumaturge,  endowed  with  more  than 
a  magician's  power,  must  have  his  habitation  in  Brom- 
field.  The  most  audacious  quack  would  guarantee  no 
such  cure  of  a  sick  body  and  a  doubly  sick  mind  in  four 
short  weeks.  Lavinia  had  subtracted  twenty  years  from 
her  normal  age,  as  neatly  as  a  reptile  discards  an  out- 
worn skin.  Her  step  was  short  and  vigorous,  with  none 
of  the  stumping  determination  that  so  long  marked  it. 
Her  head  was  carried  high  and  the  black  eyes  beamed 
with  amiability.  The  very  quality  of  her  voice  had  un- 
dergone change.  She  no  longer  swung  from  cloying 
sweetness  to  acrid  outbursts.  More  than  all  else,  a  half 
gentleness — that  she  still  wore  uncomfortably,  like  a  fur 
cloak  in  August — held  her  family  in  puzzled  wonder. 

David  moved  as  one  walking  in  his  sleep.  He  was 
afraid  to  breathe,  lest  he  fall  to  earth  and  awaken  to  the 
old  barren  reality.  When  it  appeared  likely  that  the 
mood  would  remain,  he  accepted  the  goods  the  gods  had 
provided.  He  had  waited  long,  and  the  reward  was 
justly  his. 

One  evening  Theodora  sought  her  Lady  Judith.  She 
was  agitated  to  the  point  of  inarticulateness.  Her  little 
brown  face  was  drawn  with  fear  and  two  red  spots 
burned  in  the  thin  cheeks.  Twice,  thrice  she  essayed  to 
speak,  her  throat  swelling  and  her  bird-like  eyes  darting 
their  mute  appeal. 


1 66  Indian  Summer 

"Might  I — might  I  sit  in  your  lap?"  she  faltered  at 
last.  "I'm  not  so  very  heavy,  and  I  can't  tell  you  unless 
I  ...  I  have  to  tell  you  in  your  ear." 

"What  are  you  afraid  of,  dearie?"  Mrs.  Ascott 
snuggled  her  close. 

"It  happened  just  a  few  minutes  ago — and — I  know  I 
didn't  dream  it.  It  was  when  .papa  came  downstairs 
from  changing  his  clothes.  You  know,  they  are  going 
to  the  reception  for  the  Board  of  Trustees,  and  my 
daddy  looked  so  handsome  when  he  came  in  the  library — 
with  a  pink  carnation  in  his  buttonhole." 

"There  they  go,  now.  Don't  you  want  to  wave  good- 
bye to  them?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  interrupt  mamma.  They  don't 
know  I'm  on  earth.  That's  what  I  came  to  tell  you 
about.  You  see  that  mamma  has  on  the  yellow  organdie 
dress.  But  you  don't  know  what  that  means — signifies," 
she  amended,  weighing  the  word  with  unaccustomed  de- 
liberation. "Papa  bought  it  for  her,  at  a  big  store 
in  St.  Louis,  when  she  was  going  away.  And  she  was  so 
hateful — wouldn't  put  it  on,  or  even  take  it  with  her. 
And  to-night  she  said  she  was  glad  she'd  saved  it — just 
for  him — because  it  was  the  prettiest  dress  she  ever  had." 

"I'm  glad  she  said  that,  dear." 

"Oh,  but  that  wasn't  all  she  said.  She  noticed  that 
he  picked  a  pink  carnation,  when  everybody  knows  my 
daddy  prefers  red  ones.  I  was  sitting  in  the  window 
niche,  reading  a  book.  Goodness  knows,  I  was  in  plain 
sight.  And  they  didn't  either  one  of  them  see  me. 
Mamma  came  in  first,  talking  to  herself  about  how  pretty 
her  dress  was  .  .  .  and  how  happy  she  was.  .  .  ." 
Theodora's  breath  came  short,  and  the  black  eyes  were 
luminous  with  tears. 

"And,  Lady  Judith,  all  at  once  my  daddy  came  in  the 


Midsummer  Magic  167 

room,  and  he  tiptoed  up  behind  her  and  cuddled  her 
under  the  chin  with  his  fingers.  And  she  wheeled  around 
and  just  nestled  in  his  arms,  like  a  kitten.  And  then  she 
kissed  him — the  way  you  do  when  you  just  adore  any- 
one." 

The  voice  sank  to  an  awed  whisper.  Judith  clasped 
the  frail  body,  with  its  consuming  emotional  fire,  her  own 
heart  pounding  with  vicarious  passion. 

"And  she  looked  up  in  his  eyes  and  told  him  he  was  the 
best  man  in  the  world,  a  million  times  handsomer  and 
more  successful  than  any  man  among  their  old  friends. 
And  she  wanted  to  go  back,  on  their  anniversary,  the  first 
of  November,  to  let  all  those  silly  people  see  for  them- 
selves what  a  fine  man  he  had  turned  out  to  be.  And 
papa  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  laugh  and  cry,  at  the  same 
time,  and  his  face  was  as  beautiful  as  an  angel's,  he  was 
so  happy.  And  I'm  afraid  my  mamma  is — going  to — 
di-i-ie !"  The  voice  broke  in  an  agony  of  sobs. 

"No,  no,  precious.     She  is  just  beginning  to  live." 

What  had  wrought  the  miracle?  The  absence  that 
makes  the  heart  grow  fond?  But  Mrs.  Trench  had 
often  been  away  from  home  and  family,  and  it  was  cer- 
tain that  none  of  her  former  home-comings  had  had  such 
sequential  consummation.  Had  she,  for  some  un- 
fathomable reason,  perceived  David  as  he  was?  Had 
she  fallen  in  love  with  her  husband? 

Ill 

August  was  a  glorious  month  for  the  circle  that  re- 
volved around  Vine  Cottage.  Eileen  had  been  wooed 
by  her  mother  to  confession  of  her  secret  engagement, 
and  David  had  given  reluctant  consent.  He  was  too 
deeply  steeped  in  his  own  belated  bliss  to  deny  any  other 
human  creature  the  benison  of  happiness.  Hal  would 


1 68  Indian  Summer 

be  leaving  for  Brooklyn  the  second  week  in  September, 
and  it  was  only  right  that  the  two  young  people  should 
spend  all  their  evenings  together. 

Occasionally  they  went  across  the  street  for  a  musical 
feast  with  Mrs.  Nims — whom  society  was  accepting, 
since  it  had  been  noised  abroad  that  only  three  lives  stood 
between  her  and  a  peerage.  More  often  they  explored 
strange  highways  beneath  the  starlight.  Lary,  at  home 
for  brief  periods,  viewed  the  situation  with  equanimity. 
He  had  made  many  compromises,  and  this  was  only  a 
little  more  galling  than  some  of  the  others.  He  found 
a  modicum  of  compensation  in  his  father's  sweet  con- 
tent, and  in  his  mother's  almost  pathetic  devotion  to 
the  woman  who  had  rounded  out  his  own  being. 

"She  quotes  you  on  every  possible  occasion,"  he  told 
Judith.  "If  you  advised  her  to  forswear  the  moral  code, 
she  would  obey  you." 

"It's  a  fearsome  responsibility,"  the  woman  averred. 
"What  if  I  should  blunder?" 

"You  couldn't  make  her  any  less  happy  than  she  was 
when  you  came.  She  says  you  are  better  medicine  than 
anything  Dr.  Schubert  ever  prescribed.  And  she  insists 
it  was  you  who  compelled  her  to  go  to  Bromfield." 

"Lary,  you  must  have  read  a  story — I  don't  recall  the 
title — one  of  Pierre  Loti's  exotic  conceits  .  .  .  the 
faithless  lover  who  was  tormented  by  remorse  until 
he  went  back  to  Constantinople  and  spent  a  night  on  the 
grave  of  the  woman  he  had  wronged.  Do  you  think 
some  fancy  of  your  mother's  girlhood  has  been  dispelled 
by  her  visit  .  .  .  perhaps  some  illusion  shattered  by 
crass  reality?" 

"I  don't  know  how  to  gauge  my  mother — now  less 
than  ever  before." 


Midsummer  Magic  169 

IV 

When  Lary  had  gone,  Mrs.  Trench  slipped  in  at  the 
back  door.  She  had  been  waiting  her  turn.  It  was  like 
the  old  Lavinia  to  know  exactly  what  she  wanted.  And 
again,  it  was  like  Lavinia  to  veil  her  request  in  mystery 
and  innuendo. 

"I  want  to  ask  your  advice.  You  know  so  much  more 
about  the  ways  of  the  world  than  I  do."  She  drew  from 
the  pocket  of  her  muslin  dress  a  thick  letter.  "Do  you 
think  there  are  any  circumstances  under  which  it  would 
be  right  for  a  married  woman  to  receive — " 

She  was  so  nai've,  Judith  could  with  difficulty  repress 
a  smile. 

"I  write  a  good  many  letters  to  my  attorney,  Mr. 
Ramsay.  He  has  a  wife." 

"But  those  are  business  letters." 

"Not  always.  I  write  to  him  when  I  am  blue  or  in 
doubt.  His  wife  detests  letter-writing.  She  usually 
adds  a  postscript." 

"She  sees  the  letters — and  replies?" 

"Why,  to  be  sure.  You  mean,  Mrs.  Trench,  the  kind 
of  letters  a  woman  could  not  show  her  husband?  I'm 
afraid  that  is  never  quite  safe." 

"I  ignored  the  first — and  the  second.  This  one  came 
on  Friday.  And  then  the  minister  preached  that  ser- 
mon on  regeneration  through  suffering.  He  said  it  was 
our  duty  to  help  God  to  chastise  the  wayward  soul. 
This  man  .  .  .  the  one  who  wrote  to  me.  .  .  ."  She 
faltered,  then  went  on  resolutely:  "He  is  very  unhappy. 
It  is  a  man  I  met  on  the  train — and  he  fell  in  love  with 
me.  Of  course  I  repulsed  him.  I  told  him  what  a  splen- 
did husband  I  had.  And  in  this  letter  he  says  that  when 
I  praised  David  to  him — on  the  train — it  was  all  he  could 


170  Indian  Summer 

do  to  keep  from  carrying  me  off  bodily — it  threw  him  into 
such  a  jealous  rage.  I  ought  to  be  furious  with  him." 
She  stared  into  vacancy,  adding  slowly:  "but  I'm  not." 

This  new  Lavinia  had  suddenly  come  upon  some  be- 
wildering apparition.  Her  fingers  twitched,  and  a  yel- 
low pallor  drank  up  the  flush  in  her  rounded  cheeks.  A 
chance  acquaintance  on  a  railroad  train!  Eileen  might 
have  fallen  beneath  the  glamour  of  such  a  romance.  But 
for  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Trench's  age  and  temperament  I 
It  was  unthinkable. 

"Mrs.  Ascott,  tell  me  ...  do  people  ever  really  get 
over  things?" 

All  the  fire  of  her  being  leaped  to  her  eyes  as  she  put 
the  question,  leaving  her  face  ghastly.  It  was  as  if 
her  whole  life  hung  on  the  answer. 

"Sorrow  and  disappointment?  Oh,  I  am  sure  they 
do.  And,  my  dear  Mrs.  Trench,  I  wouldn't  lay  too 
much  stress  on  the  infatuation  of  a  man  you  met  in  the 
Pullman.  To  write  to  him — letters  you  couldn't  show 
your  husband — might  be  followed  by  serious  complica- 
tions." 

"Don't  you  think  I  have  character — stability  enough 
to — you  won't  say  anything  about  this  to  Larimore?" 

"Surely  not." 


That  evening  David  and  Lavinia  went  out  to  sprinkle 
the  vegetable  garden,  their  arms  around  each  other's 
waists,  their  attitude  that  of  a  honeymoon  pair.  When 
the  task  was  done  they  came  to  the  summer  house  for  an 
hour's  visit.  Not  even  Hal  and  Eileen,  in  the  first  fever 
of  their  revealed  engagement,  were  more  frankly  de- 
voted than  they.  It  seemed  to  Judith,  sitting  with  them, 
that  the  woman  was  the  aggressor,  that  she  multiplied 


Midsummer  Magic  171 

endearing  terms  and  half-concealed  caresses,  to  assure 
herself  that  she  truly  felt  what  her  lips  were  saying. 
For  David  these  manifestations  were  unnecessary.  His 
whole  being  was  a  caress. 

VI 

August  passed,  and  the  first  hot  days  of  September — 
their  discomfort  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  Eileen's 
entrance  into  college.  There  was  yet  another  week  be- 
fore Hal  must  depart  for  his  examinations,  and  on  Thurs- 
day evening  he  failed  to  report,  either  in  person  or  by 
telephone.  The  omission  elicited  no  comment.  But 
when  the  week  had  slipped  by,  and  it  became  known  that 
the  youth  had  departed  for  New  York  without  calling  to 
say  good-bye,  Lavinia  made  bold  to  question  her 
daughter. 

"If  he  didn't  want  to  come,  I'm  sure  nobody  was  going 
to  ask  him,"  the  girl  flung  back,  her  eyes  darkening. 

"Never  mind,  dear.  These  little  quarrels  only  prove 
that  it  is  true  love.  You  and  Hal  will  make  it  all  up  in 
your  letters." 

"There  aren't  going  to  be  any  letters." 

After  her  mother  had  gone  into  the  house,  Theodora 
drew  near  the  hammock  where  Eileen  had  been  studying 
Christian  Ethics,  squinting  her  burning  eyes  as  the  day- 
light waned,  striving  to  focus  her  mind  on  the  empty 
paragraphs. 

"What  did  you  and  Hal  quarrel  about?  Go  on — tell 
me,"  the  child  teased. 

"Get  out  and  let  me  alone.  Don't  you  know  any  bet- 
ter than  to  interrupt  a  fellow  who  has  to  bone  freshman 
ethics?  I  almost  had  a  philosophic  thought  by  the  tail, 
when  you  butted  in  on  my  painful  ratiocinations." 

"I  don't  want  to  pry,  Eileen.     Honest,  I  don't.     But 


172  Indian  Summer 

you've  cried  every  night  since  Wednesday.  And  when 
you  talked  in  your  sleep,  last  night — " 

"I  did  I"  The  girl  sat  up,  sending  the  textbook  flying 
across  the  lawn.  "What  did  I  say?  Tell  me  every 
word." 

"You'd  been  kind  of  mumbling,  and  all  at  once  you 
said  right  out  loud :  'Hal  Marksley,  to  think  I  could  have 
loved  a  dirty  calf  like  you.'  ' 

"I  didn't  say  'calf — I  said — "  She  clapped  her  hand 
to  her  mouth  and  her  cheeks  went  white.  "I'm  going  to 
have  a  separate  room.  That's  all  there  is  about  it.  If 
I  can't  keep  from  babbling  in  my  sleep.  .  .  ." 


XXIII    Lavinia  Sees  the  Abyss 

i 

Four  days  without  incident  .  .  .  and  then  Eileen 
fainted  at  the  dressmaker's.  The  afternoon  was  hot  and 
she  had  stood  for  a  long  fitting.  It  was  nothing  unusual 
to  the  seamstress,  but  it  was  a  thrilling  experience  for 
the  girl  who  had  never  known  oblivion  other  than  that  of 
normal  sleep.  She  went  home  with  a  bump  on  her  head, 
to  tell  how  near  she  came  to  being  impaled  on  Miss  Den- 
ison's  shears.  Saturday  morning  she  fainted  again.  It 
was  after  a  long  telephone  conversation  with  Kitten  Hen- 
derson. Lavinia  sent  for  Dr.  Schubert.  He  was  mak- 
ing a  country  call.  In  a  panic  of  fear  she  summoned 
Mrs.  Ascott.  When  they  had  chafed  the  girl's  hands 
and  bathed  her  temples  with  brandy,  consciousness  re- 
turned slowly. 

"I  thought  I  was  dying,"  she  murmured  between  stiff- 
ened lips.  "My  hands  felt  like  clubs,  and  all  at  once 
my  whole  body  seemed  to  be  climbing  into  my  head." 

A  cry — the  sudden  baffled  scream  of  a  trapped  animal 
— burst  from  Lavinia  Trench,  as  she  sprang  to  the  side 
of  the  divan.  "What  have  you  done?  Oh,  my  God, 
what  have  you  done?" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Trench,"  Judith  expostulated,  "what 
has  come  over  you?" 

"You  don't  know  what  it  means.  You  haven't  been 
through  it  six  times.  I  never  fainted  at  any  other  time 
— and  that  scapegrace  of  a  Hal  Marksley  off  to  college 
without  a  word.  Oh,  I'll  go  mad !" 

173 


174  Indian  Summer 

Relief  came  in  a  torrential  flood  of  abuse,  of  self-pity. 
All  the  store  that  had  been  repressed  since  the  early  days 
of  July  poured  its  acrid  waters  over  the  girl.  In  vain 
Eileen  sought  to  defend  herself,  to  declare  furiously  that 
her  mother's  accusation  was  untrue.  In  such  moods, 
Lavinia  was  never  careful  to  choose  her  words.  When 
the  tirade  became  insulting,  beyond  endurance,  she  sprang 
from  the  couch  and  fled  to  a  room  on  the  third  floor 
where  she  could  lock  herself  in  and  defy  the  family  to 
drag  her  forth. 

Judith  went  home,  dumb  with  anguish.  Would  Eileen 
do  violence  to  herself?  Would  David's  heart  break? 
Would  Lary  .  .  .  She  paused,  panting,  to  frame  the 
question:  "Would  Lary  rise  to  the  occasion?"  On  the 
answer  hung  all  her  hope.  After  an  hour  of  thinking, 
such  as  she  had  never  done  before,  she  went  again 
through  the  wicket  gate.  She  would  take  the  girl  with 
her  for  the  laboratory  experiment — an  unusually  im- 
portant one,  that  called  for  an  extra  pair  of  hands.  La- 
vinia was  nowhere  in  sight;  but  from  the  cellar  came  the 
sound  of  mop  and  broom.  Absinthe  might  give  sur- 
cease to  the  roue  in  the  boulevard  restaurant  but  for  La- 
vinia Trench  the  safety-valve  was  hard  manual  labor. 

II 

The  experiment,  that  morning,  narrowly  missed  suc- 
cess. At  the  moment  when  three  pairs  of  eyes  were 
watching  with  anxious  interest,  the  fumes  from  a  heated 
retort  were  wafted  into  Eileen's  face,  and  she  collapsed 
in  Dr.  Schubert's  arms.  Judith  turned  off  the  flame  be- 
neath the  mass  of  glowing  coal  and  hurried  to  the  con- 
sultation room  where  the  girl  lay,  white  and  deathlike. 

"Unfasten  her  corsets,  quick!     Her  pulse  is  almost 


Lavinia  Sees  the  Abyss  175 

gone."  The  physician's  command  held  an  unwonted 
blend  of  terror.  Eileen  Trench  was  the  core  of  his 
soul.  He  could  not  be  impersonal,  where  she  was  con- 
cerned. At  an  opportune  moment  Sydney  arrived,  to 
lend  a  hand. 

It  was  decided  that  the  girl  must  lie  quiet  for  an  hour. 
And  of  course  Mrs.  Ascott  would  stop  for  luncheon. 
Luncheon !  Could  one  eat  food,  with  the  world  in  sham- 
bles? She  went  to  the  divan,  choking  with  distress. 
The  amber  eyes  were  half  closed  and  great  tears  welled 
over  the  lids. 

"It's  beastly  to  be  such  a  nuisance  to  those  we 
love.  .  .  ."  The  blue  lips  scarcely  moved  to  articulate 
the  poignantly  empty  words.  Then  the  long  lashes 
drooped  in  utter  weariness,  and  Eileen  slept. 

Judith  Ascott  left  the  office.  She  wanted  to  get  away 
from  herself,  away  from  every  familiar  thing.  Un- 
consciously she  turned  her  back  on  the  cross-street  that 
would  have  led  to  the  campus  and  thence  to  her  home. 
How  many  miles  she  walked,  she  could  not  guess.  She 
was  hazily  conscious  of  smiling  meadows  and  orchards, 
panting  beneath  their  load  of  ruddy  fruit.  Winding 
hill  roads,  ankle-deep  in  dust,  and  brooks  that  laughed 
at  obstructing  pebbles;  pastures  where  cattle  grazed,  and 
acres  of  coreopsis,  resplendent  with  their  wealth  of  fleet- 
ing gold,  she  viewed  with  eyes  that  saw  not. 

When  at  last  her  strength  waned  and  hunger  overcame 
her,  she  perceived  that  she  was  approaching  a  town.  She 
would  go  to  the  station  and  inquire  for  a  train  to  Spring- 
dale.  A  little  way  to  her  left,  graders  were  at  work  with 
shovels  that  scarred  the  helpless  earth.  Great  piles  of 
stone  and  other  piles  of  yellow  brick  and  moulded  terra 
cotta  crowned  the  rising  ground.  In  the  midst  of  all  this 


176  Indian  Summer 

orderly  confusion  she  perceived  a  sign-board,  insolent 
with  new  paint : 

DAVID  TRENCH 
BUILDING  CONTRACTOR 

She  stared  in  astonishment.  Then,  by  some  magic  of 
the  mind  the  solid  earth  beneath  her  feet  shifted.  She 
was  no  longer  facing  south.  This  was  Springdale,  and 
she  was  approaching  her  home  from  the  west.  The  work 
on  Henry  Marksley's  mansion  had  already  begun.  She 
shuddered  as  she  thought  of  David. 

From  the  high  point  in  the  parked  boulevard,  near 
which  the  sign-board  stood,  she  could  see  the  distant 
tower  clock,  its  face  gilded  by  the  late  afternoon  sun. 
And  over  there  on  the  newly  paved  extension  of  Sherman 
Avenue  the  foolish  little  trolley  car  was  bobbing  serenely 
along.  She  could  catch  it  on  the  return  trip  if  she  hur- 
ried. 


Early  Sunday  morning  Mrs.  Trench  came  to  the  back 
door,  brushed  Nanny  aside  as  if  her  redundant  bulk  had 
been  a  wisp  of  grass  in  the  path,  crossed  the  immaculate 
kitchen,  and  climbed  the  rear  stairs.  She  knew  that  the 
mistress  of  Vine  Cottage  was  having  breakfast  in  her 
bedroom,  and  the  ultimate  degree  of  privacy  was 
necessary.  She  was  no  longer  the  gentle  Lavinia  of 
those  seven  charmed  weeks.  All  the  softness  had  van- 
ished from  her  countenance,  and  her  voice  was  flinty  as 
she  spoke.  There  was  no  need  of  mincing  words.  Mrs. 
Ascott  was  in  the  secret,  and  she  might  as  well  know  the 
worst.  Eileen  was  guilty.  There  was  no  excuse  and  no 
help  for  it.  She  had  confessed  the  whole  thing  to  her 
father. 

"I  have  been  afraid  from  the  first  that  she  was  in 
danger.  She  is  too  young  to  discriminate,  and  she  was 
madly  in  love.  Have  you  told  her  brother?" 

"Yes.  It  was  lucky  for  Larimore  that  that  dog  of 
a  Hal  Marksley  was  safe  out  of  town.  There  would 
have  been  murder,  and  another  scandal." 

"And  her  father?" 

"David!  He  makes  me  sick.  He  sits  and  stares  at 
the  carpet  as  if  he'd  been  turned  to  stone.  Oh,  why  did 
I  marry  such  a  dolt!  If  he  would  only  whip  her— 
anything  to  show  that  he  is  a  man!  Mrs.  Ascott,  you 
are  a  woman  of  the  world.  You  have  had  affairs  of 


178  Indian  Summer 

your  own,  and  have  got  through  them  unscathed.     Can't 
you  help  me?     Don't  you  see  that  I  am  distracted?" 

"You  may  count  on  me  for  anything  I  can  do,"  Judith 
told  her  coldly. 

II 

When  the  heavy  Sunday  dinner  was  over,  and  Drusilla 
had  gone  out  for  the  afternoon,  Lary  and  Theodora 
walked  hand  in  hand  to  the  shop  behind  the  vegetable 
garden.  A  minute  later,  Judith  saw  the  child  flitting 
across  the  alley  in  the  direction  of  the  Stevens  home. 
She  knew  that  now  Larimore  Trench  would  come  to  her. 

Her  heart  stood  still  and  all  her  senses  swam. 

When,  after  an  interminable  period  of  waiting — how 
stupid  the  clock  that  measures  our  travail  by  its  rigid 
tape  of  minutes! — the  man  stood  before  her,  she  saw 
that  his  face  was  white  with  grief  and  his  hands  shook. 

"Are  you  willing  to  come  to  us?  All  the  manhood  has 
gone  out  of  me.  I  can't  go  through  it  alone." 

"Yes,  Lary."     And  they  crossed  the  lawn  together. 

Ill 

The  library  blinds  were  drawn  and  the  room  was  hot 
and  still.  Eileen  lay  back  in  the  chaise  longue,  her  eyes 
half  closed,  her  lips  pouting  surlily.  Her  father  paced 
the  floor,  his  blue  eyes  lost  in  shadow. 

"Mrs.  Ascott,"  he  began  in  a  choked  voice,  "you  know 
the  pitiful  thing  that  has  come  upon  us.  You  have  been 
a  good  neighbour,  and  we  come  to  you  for  advice.  We 
are  simple  people,  and  my  wife  feels  that  you.  .  .  ."  He 
finished  the  sentence  with  his  deep,  appealing  eyes.  "I 
wanted  to  go  to  Mr.  Marksley  and  insist  that  his  son 
make  restitution." 

"Yes!"  Lavinia  screamed,  the  remnant  of  her  self-con- 


One  Way  Out  179 

trol  tearing  to  tatters  as  she  looked  at  her  daughter, 
"and  that  idiot  of  a  girl  threatening  to  kill  herself  if  we 
go  a  step." 

"I  won't  be  married  to  any  man  at  the  point  of  a  gun 
— as  long  as  there  is  a  river  in  Springdale  where  people 
can  be  drowned." 

"It  is  a  mortal  sin  to  take  your  own  life,"  her  father 
pleaded.  "You  couldn't  face  your  God  with  such  a 
crime  on  your  hands." 

"When  it  comes  to  a  choice  between  facing  God  and 
you  people — I'd  take  my  chances  with  God  any  day. 
If  I  have  committed  the  unpardonable  sin,  I  don't  see 
how  marrying  Hal  Marksley  would  make  it  any  better." 

She  sat  bolt  upright  and  her  eyes  blazed. 

"What  is  right?  What  is  sin?  You  would  hound  a 
woman  to  death  because  she  has  a  child  without  being 
tied  body  and  soul  to  a  man  she  despises.  Hal's  mother 
and  father  hate  each  other  .  .  .  and  look  at  their  chil- 
dren. There  isn't  one  of  them  that's  fit  to  live.  Look 
at  us.  We  are  another  family  of  misfits.  And  why? 
Mamma  hates  papa,  lets  him  follow  her  around  like  a 
hungry  dog  begging  for  a  bone." 

"You  insolent  girl!"  Lavinia  gasped. 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  love — and  what  it 
means  to  come  into  the  world  all  warped  and  out  of  tune. 
Do  you  imagine  that  I  am  going  to  tie  myself  to  a  cad — 
let  ,him  be  responsible  for  other  children  of  mine? 
There  isn't  any  fidelity  in  a  man  who  is  born  of  hate.  If 
you  knew  what  a  contemptible  pup  he  is,  you'd  see  why 
the  river  looks  better  to  me." 

"You  might  have  thought  of  that,  before — "  David 
offered  gently. 

"I  didn't  know  him  till  it  was  too  late."  She  relaxed 
ever  so  little.  "We  had  talked  it  all  over,  and  he  had 


i8o  Indian  Summer 

the  most  advanced  ideas.  But  when  it  came  to  facing 
the  music.  .  .  .  Bah!  I  despise  a  man  who  whimpers. 
He  was  afraid  of  his  mother.  I  could  have  stood  even 
that.  But  when  he  wanted  to  take  me  to  Sutton,  to  a 
doctor  he  said  was  in  the  habit  of  helping  those  factory 
girls  out  of  their  scrapes  ...  I  slapped  him;  I  beat 
him  with  my  two  fists;  I  spit  in  his  face.  I  told  him  that 
if  he  was  not  a  man,  I  would  take  the  consequences 
alone." 

She  paused  to  gather  breath,  her  cheeks  burning,  her 
gaze  detached.  She  was  living  over  again  that  mon- 
strous cataclysm.  uHe  tried  to  defend  himself  by  say- 
ing I  had  no  right  to  disgrace  his  family.  Imagine! 
Disgrace  Henry  Marksley  and  Adelaide  Nims!  I  told 
him  I  wasn't  going  through  life  with  murder  on  my  soul." 

"I'm  glad  you  told  him  that,  daughter,"  David  said, 
his  eyes  warming. 

Judith  Ascott  crossed  the  room  and  laid  a  hand  pro- 
tectingly  on  Eileen's  shoulder.  "May  I  offer  a  solution? 
You  have  asked  me  to  use  my  wits.  I  know  of  a  case- 
not  unlike  this  one — a  young  girl  who  made  the  same 
blunder.  She  had  a  married  sister  who  had  no  child. 
Among  all  their  friends,  I  am  the  only  one  who  knows 
that  the  splendid  little  boy  is  not  that  sister's  child." 

"How — how  was  it  managed?"  Lavinia's  practical 
mind  demanded. 

"They  went  together  to  a  sanitarium,  where  not  even 
the  superintendent  knew  which  was  the  wife  of  the  man 
whose  name  the  baby  was  to  bear.  I  should  suggest 
sending  at  once  for  Sylvia.  She  and  Eileen  could— 

"Never  work  in  the  world!"  (Lavinia  exploded. 
"Oliver  detests  children.  He  won't  let  Sylvia  have  one 
of  her  own — even  if  she  wanted  it.  And  he'd  leave  her 
...  if  he  knew  there  was  such  a  disgrace  in  the  family.'* 


One  Way  Out  181 

"Yes,"  Eileen  said  with  bitter  scorn,  "he  was  born  in 
Salem,  where  they  put  scarlet  letters  on  women  who  sin. 
I  guess  it's  the  river  for  me." 

"There  is  another  way,"  Judith  cried,  defiant  and  ex- 
ultant. "I  can  take  the  baby  for  my  own.  I  will  go 
away  with  you,  until  it's  over,  and  you  can  come  back 
alone,  with  nobody  to  know — " 

"You  mean — "  Lavinia  Trench  stood  up,  her  eyes 
wild,  her  throat  swelling — "you  mean,  marry  Larimore 
and  palm  the  child  off  as  his?" 

"That — if  no  other  way  can  be  found.  We  could  go 
to  New  York,  where  the  building  of  the  Sanderson  home 
would  provide  the  necessary  explanation.  Eileen  might 
take  lessons  from  Professor  Auersbach  for  several 
months.  She  could  come  home  in  a  year.  I  would  not 
return  until  a  child  in  my  arms  would  cause  no  remark." 

David  moved  to  her  side  and  pressed  his  lips  rever- 
ently to  her  brow.  "Daughter,"  he  murmured,  his  eyes 
overflowing. 


That  evening  Lary  came  to  the  summer  house. 
There  was  a  crescent  moon  and  the  air  was  heavy  with 
the  scent  of  flowers. 

"I  can't  let  you  make  this  sacrifice  for  me,"  he  began 
huskily. 

"Sacrifice?  Oh,  my  darling.  ...  I  have  been  so  hun- 
gry for  you.  I  could  cry  for  joy  that  Eileen  has  opened 
the  way." 

"Dear,  my  heart  went  cold  when  she  said  what  she 
did  about  the  children  of  hate.  Are  you  willing  to  trust 
me?" 

"You  born  of  hate?    Lary,  Lary  .  .  .  such  love  as 


1 82  Indian  Summer 

your  father's  .  .  .  the  love  that  could  survive  twenty- 
eight  years  of  starvation!" 

The  man  gripped  her  hand  until  it  hurt.  Then  he 
drew  her  into  his  arms  and  his  cheek  rested  against  hers. 
The  young  moon  sank  to  sleep;  the  garden  throbbed  in 
the  velvet  darkness;  a  moon-flower  burst  its  bonds,  just 
above  them,  sending  forth  a  shower  of  perfume. 

"You  are  too  wonderful,"  he  murmured.  "Judith,  I 
know  the  man  that  is  in  me.  I  have  met  him  face  to 
face.  I  saw  him  reflected  in  your  eyes,  there  in  the 
library.  Now  I  shall  never  be  alone.  I  have  attained 
the  unattainable." 


XXV   A  Wedding  at 
Vine  Cottage 


Monday  morning  found  Eileen  too  ill  to  be  out  of  bed. 
Dr.  Schubert  came  in  response  to  an  urgent  request  from 
her  father,  looked  at  her  tongue,  felt  her  pulse,  smiled 
tolerantly  .  .  .  and  prescribed  a  nerve  sedative.  Later 
in  the  day  the  girl  who  had  twined  her  baby  fingers  about 
the  emotional  center  which  in  a  man  of  science  does  duty 
as  a  heart  asserted  her  right  to  consideration.  He  went 
home  and  talked  it  over  with  Sydney. 

"Use  your  intuition,  boy.  I  can't  have  her  going  to 
pieces  like  this.  She  has  always  been  free  from  hysteria 
— so  different  from  her  mother." 

"She  has  had  her  first  love  affair — and  Hal  Marks- 
ley  is  off  to  college." 

"Sydney  I  That  thick-lipped  youth !  Besides,  Eileen  is 
only  a  child." 

"You  remember  the  day  she  was  born,  and  you  forget 
the  days  between.  I  have  been  wretched  over  it  all  sum- 
mer. One  night  I  met  them,  half  way  over  to  Green- 
ville— the  night  I  was  called  to  see  the  Hemple  baby. 
I  spoke  to  Sylvia  about  it.  And  she  reminded  me  of  the 
night — on  that  same  road — when  old  Selim  cast  a  shoe, 
and  we  didn't  get  home  until  almost  morning.  Once  I 
was  on  the  point  of  taking  it  up  with  Lary;  but  he's  too 
deeply  in  love  to  see." 

"Lary  in  love !  Who's  the  charmer?" 

183 


184  Indian  Summer 

"You  dear  old  scientific  abstraction.  Have  you  had 
Mrs.  Ascott  at  your  elbow  four  days  a  week — and  do 
you  think  a  fellow  with  Lary's  temperament  could  spend 
all  his  evenings  with  her,  and  escape?" 

"That's — beautiful!  But  what  about  her  ...  a 
woman  who  has  exhausted  New  York  and  Paris?  Would 
she  be  satisfied  with  a  simple  nature  like  Lary's?" 

"Lary's  nature  is  about  as  simple  in  its  refractions  as 
a  rose  diamond!  Mrs.  Ascott  mothers  him.  I  have 
tried  to  make  up  that  deficit  in  his  life — but  of  course  a 
boy  he  grew  up  with  couldn't  do  it,  as  a  sensitive  woman 
could.  He  knows  I  understand  about  Mrs.  Ascott. 
Oh,  not  that  we  have  ever  talked  about  it.  That  would 
be  too  crude  for  Lary." 

"You  are  like  your  mother,  boy.  She  spoke  three 
languages — and  could  dispense  with  all  of  them.  But 
we  have  gone  miles  from  Eileen.  I  need  your  help, 
desperately." 

II 

While  the  two  physicians  discussed  a  disturbing  case, 
the  one  with  understanding,  the  other  blindly,  a  different 
conversation  was  under  way  in  Eileen's  bedroom.  Mrs. 
Trench  had  sent  for  Judith  as  soon  as  the  coast  was  clear 
of  tale-bearers. 

"He — said  this  morning  that  he  was  going  to  take  you 
and  Eileen  with  him  when  he  goes  to  New  York,  Thurs- 
day night.  I  thought  we'd  better  lay  out  the  details." 

It  was  all  so  bald,  so  matter-of-fact.  The  woman 
cringed,  as  from  a  desecration.  She  turned  for  relief  to 
the  white  face  on  the  pillow.  Mercurial  tears  glistened 
in  the  dove-gray  shadows  that  lurked  beneath  the  swollen 
eyes,  and  the  mouth  wore  the  old  rebellious  look. 
Eileen  was  still  smarting  from  the  crass,  polluting  things 


A  Wedding  at  Vine  Cottage        185 

her  mother  had  said,  after  the  physician's  departure. 
She  had  brought  this  disgraceful  thing  on  the  family,  and 
Lavinia  did  not  intend  that  she  should  shirk  one  minim 
of  her  punishment. 

"For  my  ,part,  I  don't  see  how  you  are  going  to  hide 
it  by  going  to  New  York  .  .  .  where  everybody  knows 
you.  All  your  friends  will  see  at  the  first  glance  that 
Larimore  and  Eileen  are  brother  and  sister.  They  look 
exactly  alike." 

"Thanks  for  the  compliment!"  The  girl  tossed  aside 
the  sheet  and  sat  up.  "We  both  have  noses  running 
lengthwise  of  our  faces,  and  mouths  that  cut  across. 
That's  all  the  resemblance  you  ever  saw — when  you  were 
telling  me  how  handsome  Lary  was  and  how  ugly  I  was. 
I  have  it  all  figured  out.  I  am  going  to  be  Lary's  cousin 
— young  Mrs.  Winthrop,  whose  husband  was  lost  on  that 
Alaska  steamer  that  foundered  two  weeks  ago.  Ina  and 
I  worked  out  the  situation  in  a  play  we  did  last  winter." 

"And  Ina  will  recognize  your  situation — and  spread  it 
all  over  town." 

"Mamma !  Please  credit  me  with  a  little  sense.  This 
story  isn't  for  home  consumption.  It's  for  Judith's 
friends — when  we  get  to  New  York." 

"There  will  be  few  of  them,"  Mrs.  Ascott  interrupted. 
"That  danger  is  negligible.  A  few  acquaintances  at 
Pelham  and  Larchmont.  With  the  exception  of  my 
father  and  the  Ramsays,  who  live  at  Rye — -" 

"But  the  neighbours !"     Lavinia  cried  irritably. 

"There  are  none.  We  can  go  up  and  down  in  the 
same  lift  with  them  for  months  without  knowing  what 
they  look  like.  New  York  is  too  self-absorbed  to  care 
about  any  one's  happiness  or  misery." 

"But  your  father!"  the  woman  snapped.  Her 
triumph  was  short-lived. 


1 86  Indian  Summer 

"Papa  could  live  in  the  same  house  with  Eileen  for  a 
year  without  knowing  whether  she  was  Miss  Trench  or 
Mrs.  Winthrop — Lary's  cousin  or  mine.  He  has  for- 
gotten all  but  the  outstanding  facts  of  my  life.  As  for 
the  Ramsays,  they  would  take  the  situation  as  I  do — if 
it  should  become  necessary  to  tell  them." 

Vine  shook  her  head.  She  had  no  words  with  which 
to  express  her  disapproval  of  a  city  that  could  be  thus 
cold-bloodedly  immoral.  What  sort  of  people  were  the 
Ramsays,  that  one  could  tell  them  of  a  girl's  fall  from 
virtue  without  shocking  them?  What  sort  of  woman  was 
Mrs.  Ascott,  that  she  could  carry  out  such  a  wickedly 
dishonest  piece  of  business?  Still,  we  must  praise  the 
bridge  that  carries  us  over. 

Ill 

Lary  stopped  by  on  his  way  to  the  office  after  lunch- 
eon to  assure  himself  that  it  was  not  all  an  iridescent 
dream.  On  him,  too,  Lavinia's  stolid  acceptance  of 
Judith's  solution  had  a  dampening  effect.  The  rose  had 
been  stripped  of  its  blossoms  and  stood  stark  and  thorny 
before  him.  A  few  minutes  of  random  talk,  in  which 
each  sought  to  sound  the  other's  depths,  and  then  the 
man  said,  as  if  it  were  an  inconsequential  afterthought: 

"Would  Wednesday  evening  do  for  the  ceremony? 
Not  that  it  makes  any  difference.  I  feel  as  if  we  had 
been  married  from  the  beginning  of  time.  I  told  the 
baby  about  it,  and  she  pleaded  for  Wednesday.  Some 
lucky  omen,  I  believe.  She  said  there  was  no  use  taking 
chances.  I  wish  I  had  her  philosophy  of  life." 

"I  wish  I  had  her"  Judith  cried,  foolish  tears  rushing 
to  her  eyes. 

"Why,  you  have  all  of  us — from  my  father  down.  I 
never  saw  a  conquest  more  complete."  The  man's  eyes 


A  Wedding  at  Vine  Cottage        187 

were  moist  and  shining.  "But,  dear,  the  baby  said  an- 
other thing.  She  wants  you  to  let  Eileen  serve  as  maid 
of  honour.:  Another  omen — that  she  heard  when 
Oliver's  sister  came  from  Brookline  to  attend  Sylvia. 
It  presages  a  happy  marriage  for  the  girl." 

"I  know  another  old  superstition  that  might  apply — 
in  a  sinister  way.  My  grandmother  was  full  of  them. 
To  serve  as  a  bride's  attendant,  or  as  godmother  at  a 
christening,  she  held,  was  fatal  to  the  little — " 

Her  voice  broke  and  a  wave  of  crimson  tumbled  over 
the  fair  cheek.  A  shrug  of  swift  annoyance.  Why 
should  she  be  blushing  like  an  unsophisticated  school- 
girl? Larimore  Trench  caught  his  breath,  and  his  heart 
ceased  its  monotonous  beating. 

"You  adorable  being!  You  vestal-hearted  woman! 
Don't  let  me  touch  you.  Judith,  Judith,  I  shall  go  mad 
with  ecstasy."  He  retreated  a  step,  and  all  at  once  he 
laughed,  a  laugh  of  sardonic  triumph. 

"Poor  old  fool  gods !  They  thought  they  were  de- 
stroying man  when  they  cleft  him  in  two.  Olympus 
never  realized  a  thrill  like  this.  Send  me  to  the  office, 
sweetheart.  I  have  to  finish  the  specifications  for  Miss 
Sanderson's  studio.  How  can  a  man  build  little  tawdry 
boxes  of  wood  and  stone,  when  his  eyes  have  looked  into 
heaven?" 

Judith  Ascott  was  sobbing  on  his  shoulder. 

IV 

When  he  had  gone,  she  did  an  unaccountable  thing. 
She  sent  a  telegram  to  her  father.  It  was  simple  and 
direct.  She  would  be  married  on  Wednesday.  It  would 
please  her  if  he  could  be  with  her.  There  would  be  a 
train  through  Littlefield  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  she  would  have  Button  meet  him  with  the  car.  He 


1 88  Indian  Summer 

could  return,  via  Detroit,  at  eleven  the  same  night. 
When  the  message  had  gone,  she  fell  to  wondering  what 
motive  had  actuated  her.  She  and  her  father  were,  as 
Griff  Ramsay  had  said,  strangers.  Lary's  mother?  The 
thought  angered  her.  Yes,  she  had  had  recourse  to  her 
father  .  .  .  the  only  available  shield  against  the  small- 
town criticism  that  would  be  reiterated,  in  veiled  in- 
nuendo, the  rest  of  her  life.  It  was  her  father  who  had 
pursued  her — brought  her  back  to  the  path  of  rectitude. 
Such  a  father  would  lend  reasonable  sanctity  to  her  sec- 
ond marriage !  Was  she,  too,  in  the  thrall  of  that  wo- 
man, the  slave  of  that  cunning,  provincial  mind? 

She  sought  for  relief  in  the  meeting  between  Lary  and 
her  father.  Would  he  see  in  her  beloved  nothing  more 
than  a  village  architect?  Would  her  mother  be  furious 
— her  mother  who  had  approved  Raoul? 

At  six  o'clock  the  reply  came.  Mr.  Denslow  was 
starting  Tuesday  for  the  southwest,  where  he  was  to  look 
over  some  oil  properties.  He  would  stop  off  in  Spring- 
dale,  providing  he  could  get  a  late  train  to  St.  Louis. 
His  explicit  telegram  made  no  mention  of  the  occasion 
for  his  brief  visit  in  his  daughter's  home. 

V 

The  train  schedule  was  propitious.  He  came.  The 
instant  after  he  had  deposited  his  travelling  bag  on  the 
floor  of  the  guest  room,  he  began  to  ply  Judith  with 
questions  concerning  the  deucedly  clever  fellow  who  was 
building  Avis  Sanderson's  house.  He  had  driven  over 
the  place  with  some  friends,  had  inspected  the  drawings, 
and  had  commissioned  Ramsay  to  enter  into  negotiations 
with  the  architect.  By-the-way,  he  had  sold  the  house  at 
Pelham.  He  was  thinking  of  a  princely  estate  on  Long 
Island — French  chateau  style — -to  be  finished  before  her 


A  Wedding  at  Vine  Cottage        189 

mother's  return  from  Paris.  This  man,  Trench,  would 
be  the  one  to  handle  it. 

"Papa,  you  don't  seem  to  understand  that  I  am  going 
to  marry  Larimore  Trench  this  evening!" 

"Oh,  quite  so,  quite  so.  Ramsay  told  me  he  would 
be  the  one.  It's  a  singular  piece  of  good  fortune.  I 
never  liked  the  idea  of  putting  Ben  in  one  of  those  big 
offices,  where  a  young  draughtsman  is  swallowed  up. 
The  boy  hasn't  brains  enough  to  go  it  alone.  This  way, 
Trench  can  take  him  into  a  partnership.  I'll  talk  it  over 
with  his  mother.  I'm  crossing,  the  first  of  December, 
for  a  couple  of  months  in  London  and  on  the  Continent. 
I'm  worn  out,  and  the  doctors  say — Damn  it  all,  Judith, 
I  can't  give  up  ...  go  to  the  wall  at  fifty-four,  with  a 
family  to  support.  Black  specks  floating  in  the  air,  no 
appetite  for  breakfast.  It's  a  dog's  life,  and  they'll  skin 
me  out  of  my  eye  teeth  while  I'm  gone."  He  stopped, 
disconsolate.  After  a  moment  he  resumed,  his  manner 
somewhat  detached: 

"I  was  thinking  that  you  might  have  the  apartment. 
I'm  not  in  it  once  a  week.  Hotel  so  much  more  conven- 
ient. Maids  sleep  their  heads  off — nothing  to  do.  I 
sold  off  everything,  at  Pelham,  except  the  rugs  and  a  few 
pictures  that  the  beggars  wouldn't  give  me  a  price  for. 
Thought  I  didn't  know  what  Orientals  were  worth.  Of- 
fered me  thirty  dollars  for  that  little  Blakelock.  An 
idiotic  smear  of  red  and  yellow  paint;  but  it'll  be  worth 
money  some  day,  mark  my  word.  And  that  reminds  me 
.  .  .  Jack  has  got  over  his  craze  for  flying  machines 
and  wants  to  study  art.  The  boy's  a  failure — no  good 
on  earth.  Perhaps  Trench  will  steady  him." 

"Larimore,  his  name  is,  papa." 

"Larimore?     Ramsay  said  the  name  was  Trench." 

Judith  gave  it  up. 


190  Indian  Summer 

VI 

At  dusk  the  simple  ceremony  was  read,  Dr.  Clarkson 
of  the  College  officiating.  Sydney  Schubert  played  the 
Bridal  Chorus  from  Lohengrin  as  Mr.  Denslow  descend- 
ed the  stairs  with  his  daughter.  Before  them  Eileen 
walked,  her  head  bowed,  her  face  pale  and  serious.  In 
the  cozy  angle  of  the  hall,  Lary  and  Dr.  Schubert  met 
them.  The  formality  was  a  concession  to  Theodora. 
The  murmured  responses  were  all  but  extinguished  by 
Mrs.  Trench's  sudden  flood  of  weeping.  When  it  was 
over,  Eileen  said  to  Judith,  between  lips  that  hissed  with 
anger : 

"I  could  have  choked  her.  She  just  did  that  for  effect. 
Mrs.  Henderson  cried  when  her  daughter  was  married, 
and  mamma  thinks  it's  the  proper  thing.  She  nearly  dis- 
rupted Sylvia's  wedding — and  every  one  in  church  knew 
she  was  pleased  as  Punch  to  get  Sylvia  off  her  hands." 

Mrs.  Trench  led  the  way  to  the  dining-room,  where  the 
bridal  party  was  served  by  Nanny  and  Drusilla,  with 
Mrs.  Dutton  in  the  kitchen.  In  the  domestic  realm  of 
the  two  households  the  colour  line  had  never  been  drawn. 
Nanny  hailed  from  that  section  of  New  England  where 
a  dark  skin  excites  the  same  kind  of  interest  that  a  green 
rose  or  a  two-headed  calf  would  elicit.  Mrs.  Dutton, 
Judith  perceived  early  in  the  days  of  her  tenancy,  found 
a  malicious  pleasure  in  her  own  function  as  a  social  link 
between  Mrs.  David  Trench  and  her  negro  cook — a  link 
that  Mrs.  Trench  saw  fit  to  ignore,  since  the  breaking 
of  it  had  thus  far  baffled  even  her  resourcefulness. 

Later  in  the  evening,  while  Syd  and  Eileen  played 
poignant  melodies,  with  David  leaning  over  the  piano, 
and  Lavinia  told  Dr.  Clarkson  of  the  great  Denslow 
wealth — her  daughter-in-law's  exalted  social  position — 


A  Wedding  at  Vine  Cottage        191 

Mr.  Denslow  and  Dr.  Schubert  talked  of  old  times  in 
Rochester,  where  the  youthful  physician  had  had  his  first 
hospital  experience,  where  Denslow,  a  poor  boy  with  an 
iron  will,  had  found  the  open  path  to  fortune  through  a 
painful  accident  and  a  sojourn  in  a  hospital  ward.  They 
drifted  to  the  laboratory  experiments,  which  Judith's 
father  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  inquire  about. 
This  was  just  another  of  the  girl's  wild  goose  chases.  He 
wondered  why  he  had  such  a  damnably  unsatisfactory 
family. 

"I  shall  miss  her,  cruelly.  You  don't  know  what  it 
has  meant  to  my  boy  and  me — having  a  woman  in  the 
house  four  mornings  a  week.  I  wanted  to  train  Eileen 
to  help  me  with  the  experiments;  but  your  daugher  tells 
me  they  are  taking  the  child  with  them,  to  study  under  a 
famous  violinist.  I  have  salvaged  only  one  thing  out 
of  the  wreck  of  our  two  households.  They  are  leaving 
Nanny  with  me.  I  have  worried  with  six  housekeepers 
since  my  faithful  Sophie  died,  two  years  ago." 

The  disposition  of  Nanny  was  Lavinia's  bright  in- 
spiration. Obviously  Nanny  must  not  go  to  New  York 
— to  return  a  year  later  and  spread  gossip. 

When  Dutton  had  taken  Mr.  Denslow  to  the  station, 
the  wedding  guests  went  home.  At  the  door,  Theodora 
paused  and  looked  ruefully  back.  They  had  ignored  her 
completely,  and  was  not  she  responsible  for  it  all?  Even 
Lary's  kiss  had  been  abstracted.  But  then,  Lary  did 
not  know.  None  of  the  others  knew  why  there  was  a 
wedding  at  Vine  Cottage,  that  evening.  Only  she  and 
Judith  understood — and  one  of  them  must  have  for- 
gotten, now  that  the  fairy  tale  had  come  true. 

She  looked  at  the  Beloved,  standing  there  in  the  light 
of  the  little  apricot  lamp,  and  her  throat  swelled  with 
loneliness  and  misery.  She  was  not  jealous — even  if 


192  Indian  Summer 

they  were  taking  Eileen  for  a  year  in  New  York.  Some 
one  had  to  stay  and  take  care  of  daddy — and  she  could 
do  that  much  better  than  Eileen,  or  even  Lary.  Another 
thought  came  to  her,  just  as  Judith  perceived  her  and 
held  out  her  enticing  arms. 

"You — you  still  think  it  was  dishonourable — showing 
you  the  poem  Lary  wrote?" 

"No,  darling.  It  was  a  stroke  of  genius.  You  have 
the  head  of  a  diplomat.  I  want  you  to  do  something 
really  truly  dishonourable  for  your  sister  Judith.  After 
we  have  gone,  I  want  you  to  rummage  through  Lary's 
things  until  you  find  those  two  sheets  of  paper — the  orig- 
inal ones.  Pry  open  the  lid  of  his  desk,  if  there  is  no 
other  way,  and  send  them  to  me.  I  am  going  to  have 
them  framed!" 


XXVI    The  Light  Within 

i 

A  little  while  before  the  expressman  called  for  the 
trunks,  Judith  went  for  the  last  time  through  the  wicket 
gate.  She  and  Eileen  had  been  packing  all  day,  and  she 
was  weary  to  the  verge  of  collapse.  Theodora  had  hov- 
ered over  her  ever  since  she  came  from  school,  up  in  the 
attic  where  winter  garments  must  be  looked  over,  down 
in  the  pantry  and  cellar,  where  the  Buttons  were  receiv- 
ing orders  for  the  temporary  closing  of  Vine  Cottage. 
Through  it  all  she  had  been  silent  and  unobtrusive,  her 
face  wearing  an  expression  that  wellnigh  broke  the  heart 
of  the  woman  who  loved  her.  Only  once  did  she  offer 
speech: 

"I  guess  it's  better  for  my  mamma  to  get  natural  again 
— because — the  other  way  she  couldn't  have  lived." 

The  remedy  that  would  work  such  magic  once  ought 
to  be  efficacious  again.  Lavinia's  altered  attitude  to- 
wards her  husband  was,  beyond  peradventure,  the  result 
of  her  visit  in  Bromfield.  When  Judith  found  opportun- 
ity, she  asked: 

"Do  you  think  you  will  be  coming  to  New  York  this 
fall?  There  will  always  be  a  guest  room  for  you  and 
father." 

"David  can't  get  away  before  spring,  with  the  Marks- 
ley  contract  crowding  him  to  the  wall,  and  Larimore  gone 
all  the  time.  If  he  had  any  system  about  him,  he 
wouldn't  let  things  crowd  him  that  way.  If  I  was  a 


contractor — " 


193 


194  Indian  Summer 

"Then,  perhaps  you  will  come  alone,  and  stop  off  at 
Bromfield  on  the  way  home.  Ylour  visit  there  in  July 
certainly  gave  you  great  benefit." 

"How  much  benefit — no  one  will  ever  know!"  The 
black  eyes  snapped.  "It  almost  paid  for  all  that  has 
happened  since.  To  see  some  one  that  you  thought  was 
rich  and  prosperous — and  find  out  that  they  have  actually 
less  than  you  have — "  She  stopped,  and  the  even  white 
teeth  clicked.  "I  mean  my  brother  Ted."  In  crimson 
confusion  she  hurried  to  the  window,  where  she  stood 
dumbly  contemplating  the  street.  When  she  turned,  it 
was  to  abuse  Eileen  so  extravagantly  that  she  became 
aware  of  the  blunder  she  was  making. 

"Mrs.  Ascott,  you  mustn't  listen  to  what  I  am  saying," 
she  floundered. 

"Won't  you  call  me  Judith,  now  that  I  am  no  longer 
Mrs.  Ascott?" 

Mrs.  Trench  laughed  foolishly. 

"I  forgot  that  you  and  Larimore  were  married  last 
night.  I'll  forget  my  own  name  if  I  have  to  live  in  this 
nightmare  much  longer." 

"Perhaps  you  can  get  it  off  your  mind  if  you  go  to 
Bromfield  for  a  few  weeks.  I  am  sure  Dr.  Schubert  and 
Nanny  will  look  after — " 

"I  never  want  to  see  Bromfield  again." 

II 

Judith  put  the  puzzle  aside  and  went  home  to  dress 
for  the  train.  At  the  station  she  kissed  David  and  said, 
reassuringly: 

"Don't  brood  over  it,  father.  Eileen  will  come 
through  without  a  blemish." 

"If  there  is  any  one  who  can  save  her  it  is  you.  We 
had  to  get  her  away  from  her  mother.  Not  that  I 


The  Light  Within  195 

blame  my  wife  for  this.  She  is  the  most  conscientious 
woman  I  have  ever  known,  the  most  positive  in  her  con- 
victions of  morality.  She  has  always  set  a  good  example 
for  her  children." 

Just  then  the  engine  whistled  for  the  crossing  below 
Springdale,  and  there  was  a  hurrying  to  and  fro  on  the 
platform,  for  the  crashing  wheels  scarcely  came  to  rest  in 
the  little  college  town.  Judith  was  glad  of  the  interrup- 
tion. Were  all  good  men  blind?  A  moment  later  she 
was  waving  farewell  from  the  rear  Pullman,  as  David 
stood  beside  the  track,  Theodora's  hand  clasped  in  his. 

Ill 

On  Saturday  Eileen  had  her  first  glimpse  of  the  Hud- 
son. That  evening  the  Ramsays  called,  and  then  .  .  . 
Aladdin's  lamp  was  relegated  to  the  attic  along  with  the 
other  wonders  that  had  survived  their  day  of  glory. 
New  York  was  the  real  fairy  land.  From  the  hip- 
popotamus in  the  Bronx  to  the  hippocampus  in  Battery 
Park,  the  girl  saw  it  all.  Sometimes  with  Judith,  more 
often  with  Laura  Ramsay  or  her  mother,  she  went  from 
elevated  to  subway,  from  the  amusing  little  cross-town 
horse-cars  that  were  more  primitive  even  than  Spring- 
dale,  to  the  thrilling  taxicab  and  the  Fifth  Avenue  bus, 
with  a  zest  that  whetted  the  jaded  a,ppetites  of  the  wo- 
men for  whom  the  city  had  long  since  lost  its  novelty. 

After  two  weeks  she  decided  that  she  had  taken  in  all 
the  impressions  she  could  hold,  and  settled  down  to  her 
music  in  earnest.  There  were  daily  letters  from  her 
father,  empty  because  of  that  fullness  he  dared  not  ex- 
press. Twice  a  week  Theodora  wrote — exhaustive  dis- 
courses on  the  city,  which  her  imagination  rendered  more 
real  than  reality  itself.  There  were  letters,  long  or 
brief,  to  Lary  from  Lavinia,  with  never  a  mention  of 


196  Indian  Summer 

Eileen.     The  girl  wrote  four  times  to  her  mother,  and 
then  her  spirit  revolted. 

"She  can  go  to  grass  before  I'll  ever  know  she's  on 
earth.  I  suppose  she's  afraid  of  contaminating  herself. 
I'd  like  to  tell  her  there  are  some  thinking  people- 
people  whose  opinions  count — who  don't  consider  it  half 
as  immoral  to  go  to  the  devil  with  the  man  you  believe 
you  love — as  it  is  to  bear  six  children  for  the  man  you 
know  you  hate." 

"Dearest,  don't  do  it,"  Judith  pleaded.  "You  must 
not  stir  up  all  that  rancour  in  your  soul.  Remember  what 
you  are  stamping  on  the  mind  and  character  of  the  child 
I  am  going  to  call  my  own.  You  owe  it  to  me — not  to 
make  my  burden  too  hard.  And,  Eileen,  your  mother 
is  no  more  responsible  for  her  limitations  than  you  are 
for  yours.  She  was  brought  up  to  a  belief  that  there 
is  something  supernatural  in  a  marriage  certificate. 
Morality  is  wholly  a  matter  of  external  forms.  And  she 
has  the  clear  advantage  of  standing  with  the  majority." 

"Yes,  she  always  grabs  a  front  seat  in  the  bandwagon. 
If  it  ever  gets  popular  to  run  off  with  some  other  wo- 
man's husband — you'll  find  her  in  the  procession.  No! 
you  won't  find  her.  She's  too  set  in  her  ideas  for  that. 
But  after  the  way  she  cottoned  to  Mrs.  Nims — when  it 
suited  her  purpose — and  other  swells  in  Springdale— 
She  choked,  her  face  growing  scarlet.  "I  hope  I'll  never 
be  intolerant." 

Judith  sensed  the  thought  that  had  flared  up  in  the 
girl's  mind,  from  which  she  had  retrieved  herself  in  a 
swift  change  of  subject.  Ignoring  Mrs.  Trench's  reason 
for  that  first  neighbourly  call  on  Adelaide  Nims,  after 
her  return  from  Bromfield,  she  fell  back  on  the  nature  of 
toleration. 

"My  dear,  don't  you  know  that  you  are  just  as  in- 


The  Light  Within  197 

tolerant  of  your  mother  as  she  is  of  you — that  you  are 
like  her,  when  you  justify  to  yourself  the  thing  you  want 
to  do — and  spare  your  lacerated  feelings,  when  things  go 
wrong,  by  finding  flaws  to  pick  in  some  other  person's 
conduct?" 

Eileen  hung  her  head.  From  infancy  she  had  been 
branded  as  a  Trench.  And  now  it  shamed  her  to  be  told 
that  she  resembled  her  mother,  her  mother  in  whom  she 
could  see  nothing  but  bourgeois  complacence.  After  a 
moment  she  said: 

"You  always  get  the  nub  of  it,  Judith.  How  can  you 
see  the  inside  of  things  so  quick?  I  can  work  a  thing 
out,  when  once  I  get  a  good  grip  on  an  idea.  I  guess 
I'm  like  mamma  there,  too.  Only — Lary  says  you  have 
to  be  careful  what  ideas  you  give  her — because  she's  like 
as  not  to  apply  them  upside  down.  I  suppose  there's  only 
one  thing  for  me  to  do.  I'll  have  to  take  myself  apart 
and  see  what  my  inner  works  are  like.  You  sharv't  have 
any  such  vixen  as  I  was,  to  take  care  of.  I  clawed  Dr. 
Schubert  in  the  eye  before  I  was  an  hour  old.  It  wasn't 
an  accident,  either.  I  was  just  naturally  vicious.  It  was 
because  mamma  had  put  in  a  whole  winter  hating  me 
and  papa  and  the  fool  Creator  who  put  all  the  burden  of 
bearing  children  on  the  wife.  At  least  I  haven't  any  such 
feeling  as  that.  I  don't  even  blame — "  Her  cheeks 
crimsoned  again.  "I  don't  blame  any  one  but  myself." 

There  were  other  serious  talks,  touching  the  deep  hid- 
den things  of  life;  but  as  the  autumn  passed  these  became 
more  and  more  impersonal.  Once  a  week  Eileen  went  to 
visit  the  Ramsays  at  Rye,  usually  on  Saturday  when  she 
could  spend  the  night,  and  Laura's  mother  saw  to  it  that 
the  violin  was  never  left  at  home.  In  the  suburban 
town,  young  Mrs.  Winthrop  was  an  immediate  social 
success. 


XXVII     David's  Children 


November  was  half  gone  when  Judith  wrote  to  David, 
the  letter  she  had  yearned  to  write,  weeks  ago: 

"We  are  on  the  eve  of  victory,  the  great  spiritual  victory  that 
I  know  means  more  than  anything  else  to  you.  Eileen  puts  in 
four  hours  a  day  practicing.  This  evening  she  is  giving  a  recital 
at  the  church  Mrs.  Ramsay's  mother  attends.  She  is  a  great  fa- 
vourite in  Rye,  where  the  story  of  her  tragic  widowhood  first  stim- 
ulated interest.  I  know,  father,  how  distasteful  this  kind  of  sub- 
terfuge is  to  you ;  but  Lary  agrees  with  me  that  it  is  necessary.  As 
yet  no  one  suspects.  But  we  must  plan  a  long  way  ahead. 

"I  have  it  all  arranged,  even  to  the  wording  of  the  announce- 
ment cards  I  hope  to  send  out,  some  time  next  July.  But  I  shall 
not  dare  to  show  myself  in  Springdale  for  another  year.  There 
are  too  many  experienced  mothers,  who  would  know  whether  a 
baby  was  three  weeks  or  three  months  old.  I  could  not  conceal 
the  telltale  marks.  I  don't  know  what  a  baby  ought  to  look  like ! 

"Don't  say  anything  about  this  to  Lary's  mother.  She  would 
only  worry,  and  she  might  do  something,  inadvertently,  to  spoil 
all  our  planning.  Lary  would  like  to  have  us  accompany  him 
when  he  makes  his  next  business  trip  to  Springdale.  It  is  perfectly 
safe,  as  far  as  Eileen  is  concerned,  I  assure  you.  I  do  so  want 
you  to  hear  her  play.  It  is  not  merely  technique.  I  can  fairly 
hear  her  soul  grow.  She  is  having  her  growing  pains,  but  they 
are  good  for  her.  She  never  speaks  of  the  ordeal  that  is  before 
her,  and  for  a  week  I  thought  she  had  forgotten  it.  When  she 
brought  me  an  exquisite  little  garment  she  had  made,  every  stitch 
by  hand,  I  knew  I  was  mistaken. 

"Professor  Auersbach  sees  a  great  career  for  her.  The  strain 

198 


David's  Children  199 

in  her  nature  that  will  militate  against  high  artistic  success,  such 
as  he  hopes  for,  is  her  salvation  now.  She  rebounds  from  dis- 
agreeable things  with  the  resiliency  of  a  rubber  ball.  Lary  doesn't 
want  her  to  be  famous.  He  only  wants  her  to  grow  into  a  good 
woman.  It  would  make  you  happy  to  see  the  little  intimacy  that 
is  growing  up  between  them.  She  doesn't  at  all  see  in  him  the 
demigod  he  is  to  me;  but  I  had  the  advantage  of  seeing  him  first 
through  Theodora's  eyes.  Tell  her  how  I  miss  her,  and  give  her 
a  big  hug  from  her  Sister  Judith." 

II 

David  put  the  letter  away  in  the  safe,  with  his  few 
priceless  possessions.  He  wanted  to  see  his  children — 
the  two  whose  likeness  to  him  had  been  a  cause  for  half 
humorous  apology  or  bitter  reproach.  He  walked  home 
from  the  office,  lost  in  a  flood  of  incoherent  longing.  If 
only  Lavinia  had  never  been  kind !  There  was  to  be  a 
concert  in  the  college  chapel  on  Thanksgiving  evening. 
Perhaps  Eileen  could  play  in  public.  His  soul  revolted 
at  such  philandering  with  the  truth;  but  he  had  taught 
himself  to  make  peace  with  the  powers  that  were  stronger 
than  his  will  or  his  ability.  He  quickened,  his  step. 
He  would  offer  the  suggestion  to  Vine. 

"It's  just  the  thing.  I'll  go  right  over  and  tell  Mrs. 
Henderson  about  it !  The  women  of  Springdale  will  re- 
member the  date — if  anything  should  ever  leak  out. 
Eileen  is  built  like  the  Trenches.  I  remember,  your  sis- 
ter Edith  was  at  church  the  Sunday  before  little  Buddie 
was  born — and  when  he  came,  it  was  a  complete  surprise. 
Nobody  suspected  anything." 

David  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  His  wife's 
bald  physical  view  of  Eileen's  soul-tragedy  filled  him  with 
loathing.  At  long  intervals,  in  the  years  that  were  gone, 
she  had  forced  him  to  look  within  the  steel-girt  casket  of 


20O  Indian  Summer 

her  being,  and  always  he  had  turned  away  horrified  eyes 
— to  restore  as  best  he  might  the  priceless  jewels  of  his 
imagining.  Could  he  censure  his  daughter  because  she 
had  believed  in  Hal  Marksley,  to  her  hurt?  How  had 
he  judged  the  one  he  loved,  the  woman  he  had  given 
Eileen  for  a  mother? 

He  put  the  thought  aside  as  wickedly  disloyal.  Vine 
was  the  mother  of  his  children.  She  had  taken  him,  a 
simple-hearted  boy  with  no  ambition  beyond  the  making 
of  beautiful  furniture,  and  she  had  made  of  him  a  suc- 
cessful business  man.  He  could  no  longer  make  beauti- 
ful things.  His  fingers  had  lost  their  sure  touch.  But 
he  had  given  his  children  the  cultural  advantages  his 
own  boyhood  had  lacked,  and  he  had  laid  by  enough  to 
care  for  his  family,  if  he  should  be  taken.  He  had  not 
been  happy.  He  knew,  all  at  once,  that  he  had  not  been 
happy.  He  had  never  thought  of  it  before.  Still,  what 
right  had  mortals  to  demand  happiness?  Had  Vine 
been  sympathetic,  he  might  never  have  risen  above  the 
rank  of  a  carpenter.  His  children  would  have  tolled 
with  their  hands,  to  measure  the  stolid  level  of  Bromfield 
or  Olive  Hill.  It  was  Vine,  with  her  far-seeing  eyes  and 
her  two-edged  tongue,  who  had  made  Lary's  achievement 
possible,  who  had  given  Sylvia  the  satisfaction  of  a  mar- 
riage to  her  liking.  It  was  patent  that  Sylvia,  at  least, 
was  satisfied  with  her  lot. 

His  eyes  turned  inward,  he  began  to  take  stock  of  his 
children.  Bob  and  Isabel  were  in  heaven.  The  acts 
of  God  were  not  to  be  challenged.  Lary  had  periods  of 
morbid  brooding,  when  life  looked  worse  than  worthless. 
It  would  be  different,  now  that  he  had  a  wife  to  love  him 
...  a  wife  who  saw  in  him  a  demigod.  Such  devotion 
had  stimulated  him  to  greater  endeavour  than  he  had 
deemed  worth  while.  It  might  not  have  worked  that 


David's  Children  201 

way  with  Lary's  father  ...  if  he  had  had  a  wife  to 
soothe  and  admire  him.  He  might  have  been  too  happy 
to  exert  himself.  He  could  not  be  sure. 

The  very  qualities  which  had  won  Judith  were  fostered 
by  Vine's  determination  to  send  Larimore  to  Cornell. 
Just  why  Cornell,  David  had  no  means  of  knowing. 
Lary  had  not  gone  to  Bromfield  for  any  of  his  vacations. 
So  the  proximity  of  the  old  home  town  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  With  all  his  cultural  charm,  he  might  not 
have  won  Mrs.  Ascott,  had  there  been  no  strong  incen- 
tive to  action.  He  was  inclined  to  drift,  to  shun  the 
crass  grip  of  reality.  His  happiness  had  been  thrust 
upon  him,  because  of  Eileen's  drastic  need. 

Theodora  was  too  young  to  be  estimated  with  any  de- 
gree of  finality.  As  she  was,  so  had  Vine  Larimore  ap- 
peared to  him  when,  as  a  boy,  he  had  looked  upon  her 
with  yearning  eyes.  In  the  after  years  Vine  had  been 
the  prototype  of  Sylvia.  She  might  have  bargained  bet- 
ter with  her  beauty — as  Sylvia  had  bargained.  What 
had  prompted  Vine  to  the  breaking  of  that  other  engage- 
ment? She  had  told  him,  times  without  number,  that  he 
had  won  her — against  her  better  judgment — by  his  per- 
sistent devotion  .  .  .  had  taken  her  by  storm,  and  had 
thereby  driven  his  rival  to  a  hasty  and  ill-starred  mar- 
riage. How  could  he  have  taken  any  woman  by  storm? 
He  felt  a  little  foolish  pride  in  the  thought  that  for  one 
rash  moment  he  had  been  bold. 

He  once  heard  his  wife  counselling  Sylvia,  when  she 
was  on  the  point  of  marrying  for  pique,  an  elderly 
widower  in  the  college  faculty.  She  could  afford  to 
swallow  Tom  Henderson's  neglect,  Vine  had  said,  if 
thereby  she  might  some  day  step  into  Mrs.  Dr.  Hender- 
son's shoes.  But  Sylvia  was  in  no  need  of  advice.  She 
would  always  make  the  best  of  her  situation — glamour 


202  Indian  Summer 

it  over  with  a  value  calculated  to  inspire  envy  in  the 
minds  of  her  friends.  It  would  have  been  the  same,  had 
she  occupied  a  three-room  cottage  in  Olive  Hill,  with 
miners'  wives  for  her  social  equals.  She  was  developing 
into  a  snob.  David  had  not  known  the  meaning  of  the 
word  until  he  felt  it  in  Sylvia,  that  summer. 

He  turned  for  relief  to  Theodora,  the  one  who  was 
still  plastic.  His  mind  had  climbed  awkwardly  over 
Eileen.  He  must  do  his  work,  and  a  father  could  not 
contemplate  that  catastrophe  and  live.  Theo  under- 
stood him,  as  none  of  the  others  did.  She  had  rejoiced 
with  him  in  the  seven  weeks  of  his  belated  honeymoon, 
and  she  sorrowed  with  him  in  the  bitterness  of  the  after- 
math. 

Ill 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you?  Have 
you  gone  stone  deaf?  I  have  spoken  to  you  three  times, 
and  you  haven't  turned  a  hair."  He  was  aroused  from 
his  musings  by  Vine's  raucous  voice. 

"I  suppose  my  mind  was  wandering.  What  do  you 
want,  dear?" 

"What  were  you  thinking?"  Her  eyes  were  dark 
with  suspicion. 

"I — I  believe  I  was  thinking  about  old  Selim,  the 
saddle  horse  .  .  .  you  know,  Vine,  that  Dr.  Schubert 
used  to  ride  when  the  roads  were  too  muddy  for  the 
buggy-  And  what  sore  places  the  saddle  would  make  on 
the  poor  old  fellow's  back — and  how  the  sores  would  turn 
into  kindly  calluses  after  the  saddle  had  been  worn  a  few 
weeks.  It  was  taking  the  saddle  off,  and  putting  it 
back  on  again,  that  made  the  new  sores.  It  would  be 
better  never  to  feel  relief  from  the  calloused  places  than 
to  have  to  harden  them  all  over  again." 


David's  Children  203 

"Yes!  I  wish  I  had  never  gone  to  Bromfield.  Not 
that  the  trip  didn't  benefit  my  health  wonderfully.  But 
we  wouldn't  be  in  all  this  trouble  if  I  had  stayed  at  home. 
And  the  worst  of  it  isn't  Eileen,  either.  I  had  to  give  in 
to  let  Larimore  marry  that  grass  widow.  That's  the 
part  that  can't  be  so  easily  undone." 

"Vine!"  David  Trench  towered  his  full  height,  his 
face  stiff  with  indignation.  "Have  you  no  decency,  no 
gratitude,  no  human  kindness  in  your  heart?  For 
shame,  to  let  such  words  pass  your  lips !" 

Lavinia  laughed,  a  strangled,  empty  giggle,  while  the 
red  crept  up  her  neck. 

"I  was  only  joking.  Larimore  says  I  have  no  sense 
of  humour.  I  think  you  are  the  one  who  can't  see  a 
joke." 

"I  can't  see  a  joke  in  things  that  are  not  to  be  joked 
about.  Judith  is  a  noble  woman  and  she  has  saved  you 
from  disgrace.  We  are  the  last  people  in  the  world 
who  have  a  moral  right  to  bring  up  her  past.  We  all 
make  mistakes,  even  you — " 

"I  made  the  mistake  of  my  life  when  I  married  a  man 
who  always  sides  against  me,  no  matter  what  comes  up." 
She  began  to  weep  loudly. 

IV 

David  was  wont  to  coax  and  comfort  until  the  storm 
was  over;  but  this  time  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
left  the  house  without  a  word.  When  he  returned  at 
dinner  time  the  sky  was  serene  and  the  atmosphere  al- 
most balmy.  Lavinia  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks  and 
turned  to  pick  a  thread  from  his  coat  with  wifely  care. 
Her  lips  wore  a  satisfied  smirk. 

"It's  all  fixed.  I  had  the  luck  to  run  into  a  meeting 
of  the  committee  at  Mrs.  Henderson's,  and  they  want  ' 


204  Indian  Summer 

Eileen  to  play  three  numbers.  I  have  written  Judith  to 
get  her  the  finest  dress  in  New  York — not  to  mind  the 
cost — and  to  send  the  titles  by  return  mail.  I'm  going  to 
give  a  big  reception,  Friday  afternoon." 

David  smiled  wearily.  Another  whirlpool  in  his  do- 
mestic stream  had  been  navigated,  safely.  Before  him 
lay  a  week  of  tranquillity.  Vine  was  always  amiable, 
with  some  such  absorbing  task  in  prospect. 


XXVIII    Indian  Summer 


The  trio  arrived  Wednesday  morning,  with  half  the 
freshman  class  at  the  station  to  meet  Eileen.  It  was  all 
so  different  from  her  going  away.  How  strange  the 
town  looked,  how  tranquil  and  confiding  the  faces  of 
her  friends  !  What  a  long,  long  time  she  had  been  gone  ! 
Could  she  ever  again  talk  to  Kitten  and  Ina  as  in  the  old 
life?  Could  she  adjust  herself,  for  even  a  few  days,  to 
the  environment  that  had  been  her  whole  world? 

The  change  was  not  all  in  herself.  There  was  her 
mother — kissing  her  ecstatically  before  all  that  crowd, 
telling  her  how  sweet  she  looked,  how  lonely  the  big  house 
was  without  her.  And — did  she  hear  aright? — declaring 
in  ringing  tones  that  she  should  not  go  back  to  New  York 
with  Larimore  and  Judith,  but  should  enter  college  at  the 
beginning  of  the  second  semester.  A  moment  later  Mrs. 
Trench  passed  from  this  demonstration  to  embrace  Ju- 
dith with  equal  warmth,  to  address  her  as  "my  dear 
daughter"  and  lament  the  shortness  of  the  visit.  The 
girl  was  bewildered.  Only  Theodora  was  unchanged. 
She  bubbled  and  vibrated  as  of  old,  pouting  disconsolately 
when  the  chapel  bell  summoned  her. 

II 

The  afternoon  was  taken  up  with  rehearsal  for  to- 
morrow evening's  program  in  the  college  chapel.  Once 
Eileen  was  on  the  brink  of  the  sordid  past.  She  had 
met  Adelaide  Nims  with  unruffled  composure ;  but  when 

205 


206  Indian  Summer 

'Kitten  joked  her  about  her  prospective  sister-in-law,  and 
Ina  wanted  to  know  how  many  evenings  a  week  Hal  was 
in  the  habit  of  spending  with  her,  she  almost  forgot  the 
role  she  had  been  playing  .  .  .  that  in  New  York  she 
was  Mrs.  Winthrop,  whereas  in  Springdale  she  was  still 
Eileen  Trench,  and  presumably  betrothed  to  Mrs.  Nims' 
brother. 

"You  can't  fool  us,"  Miss  Henderson  teased.  "I  bet 
Ina  a  pair  of  gold-buckled  garters  that  you'd  follow  Hal 
to  New  York,  instead  of  going  to  college  here.  And 
your  mother  didn't  get  by,  this  morning,  with  that  line 
of  talk  about  keeping  you  at  home.  She  wouldn't  tear 
you  and  Hal  apart  for  the  world." 

Eileen  felt  a  sinking  in  the  region  of  her  solar  plexus, 
but  she  contrived  a  flippant  retort,  and  took  up  her 
violin.  She  had  not  remembered  that  Hal  Marksley  was 
in  Brooklyn  .  .  .  that  she  was  likely  to  meet  him  in  the 
subway  or  at  the  theatre,  any  day.  In  the  onrush  of  her 
first  disillusionment  he  had  been  carried  beyond  her  ken, 
as  an  obstruction  of  logs  and  floating  debris  is  torn  from 
its  moorings  and  scattered  in  meaningless  fragments  by 
the  violence  of  a  spring  flood. 

Ill 

Judith,  after  a  few  hours  with  Mrs.  Button  and  a 
hurried  visit  from  Nanny — indeed  the  Doctors  Schubert 
were  dears;  but  her  heart  was  still  with  her  mistress — 
found  Lary  in  the  hall  where,  less  than  three  months  ago, 
she  promised  to  love,  honour  and  obey  him.  He  must 
make  a  hurried  run  to  Littlefield,  on  business  for  his 
father.  It  was  a  glorious  autumn  afternoon  and  the  road 
was  in  fair  condition.  At  his  suggestion,  Judith  took  an 
extra  wrap,  for  the  air  would  be  chill  after  the  sun  went 
down. 


Indian  Summer  207 

It  was  the  twenty-fourth  of  November,  and  the  tem- 
perature was  that  of  late  spring;  but  the  air  held  a 
dreamy  content,  as  if  the  earth  and  her  children  were 
drunk  with  rare  old  amber  wine.  On  the  brow  of  a 
hill,  a  little  way  out  from  town,  Lary  stopped  the  car  to 
point  out  a  great  diadem  of  irregular  rubies,  in  a  setting 
of  Etruscan  gold.  That,  he  explained,  was  a  scattering 
of  scarlet  oaks  in  a  grove  composed  largely  of  soft 
maples.  Here  and  there  a  flavescent  green  asserted 
itself,  thinly. 

"Walnuts,"  he  said,  his  face  taking  on  a  boyish  look. 
"We  had  every  tree  marked,  when  Bob  and  Syd  and  I 
were  youngsters.  You  have  to  pick  out  the  location  .  .  . 
and  remember  it.  The  walnut  has  no  community  instinct. 
It  seldom  grows  in  friendly  groups,  like  the  sweet  gums 
and  sugar  maples.  The  leaves  are  only  yellowed,  by  a 
frost  that  turns  the  oaks  crimson  over  night,  and  their 
formation  gives  the  effect  of  delicate  filigree.  Look  at 
that  sumac  bush,  Judith — like  a  great  sang  de  boeuf  vase, 
with  a  red  on  the  shoulder  that  would  have  filled  an  an- 
cient Chinese  potter  with  awe.  The  flame-red  in  the 
sang  de  boeuf  porcelain  was  supposed  to  be  derived  from 
the  breath  of  the  gods,  while  the  kiln  was  at  white  heat. 
This  red,  that  gives  a  flambe  touch  to  so  many  of  these 
sumacs,  is  an  insolent  growth  of  rhus  toxicodendron,  that 
has  run  wild  all  over  these  hills." 

"Poison  ivy,"  Judith  cried.  "Yes,  we  have  it  in  New 
York  and  Connecticut — all  up  to  the  Sound.  During 
the  summer,  city  people  often  mistake  it  for  Virginia 
creeper,  to  their  sorrow.  But  after  frost,  its  coral  colour 
betrays  it." 

Something  on  the  grassy  slope  caught  her  eye,  and 
she  asked  for  explanation.  Cobwebs.  The  shrubs  were 
festooned  with  them,  long  streamers  floating  in  the 


208  Indian  Summer 

breeze,  like  knotted  gossamer  threads.  Over  the  short 
grass  they  formed  a  continuous  fabric,  as  delicate  as 
crepe  chiffon. 

"Millions  of  spiders  set  to  work  with  their  spinning, 
the  morning  after  the  first  hard  frost.  No  naturalist 
has  ever  explained,  to  my  satisfaction,  where  they  come 
from,  or  what  purpose  they  serve  by  throwing  out  all 
this  maze  of  webs.  I  can't  believe  that  there  is  any 
utilitarian  end  in  view.  As  if  nature  couldn't  squander  a 
little  effort  on  pure  beauty!" 

When  the  car  had  rounded  the  shoulder  of  the  hill, 
Judith  touched  her  husband's  arm.  "Look,  Lary,  is  that 
fire?  Not  the  red  of  the  foliage,  but  that  film  of  smoke, 
away  beyond  the  field." 

He  followed  the  lead  of  her  gaze,  across  a  dun  field 
dotted  at  more  or  less  regular  intervals  with  huge  shocks 
of  withered  corn,  beside  some  of  which  lay  piles  of  yel- 
low and  white  ears,  husked  and  ready  for  the  crib.  Be- 
yond this  were  broad  acres  of  wheat  stubble,  glistening 
silver  in  the  sun.  And  then  the  creek,  half  hidden  from 
view  by  a  tangle  of  wild  grape  and  trumpet  creeper  that 
wellnight  suffocated  the  stunted  trees  along  its  bank. 
Over  the  field,  the  stream,  the  low  woods  beyond,  was  a 
silver  mist  that  deepened  first  to  azure,  then  to  smoky 
purple,  as  it  met  the  far  horizon. 

"That  isn't  the  result  of  fire,  dear.  That  is  our  much 
vaunted  Indian  Summer  haze.  The  Indians  had  a 
legend  to  explain  it.  Ask  Theo  to  tell  you.  It's  one  of 
her  favourites." 

"Yes,  yes  ....  I  had  forgotten.  I  shall  always 
associate  it  with  Dr.  Schubert — the  peace  that  came  to 
him  after  the  long  years  of  tragedy  and  the  final  shock 
of  sudden  death.  Lary,  do  you  think.  ..." 

"I  am  afraid  not,  dearest.     My  mother  was  born  in 


Indian  Summer  209 

an  off  season.     Nothing  in  her  case  works  out  on  normal 
lines." 

Then  they  rode  on  in  silence,  each  wondering  how  the 
other  had  caught  the  unvoiced  question  that  was  in  both 
minds. 

IV 

The  concert,  for  the  benefit  of  the  scholarship  fund, 
the  following  evening,  was  the  social  event  of  the  season. 
Mrs.  Trench  was  disappointed  in  the  dress  Judith  had 
bought  for  Eileen — a  simple  affair  of  white  chiffon,  in 
long  graceful  lines,  over  a  satin  slip  that  showed  a  trac- 
ery of  silver  threads — until  she  heard  Mrs.  Nims  whisper 
to  Mrs.  Henderson  that  it  must  have  been  a  late  Paris 
importation.  After  that  she  caught  the  "style"  her  vil- 
lage eyes  had  not  perceived.  It  was  worth  the  price,  to 
have  Mrs.  Nims  say  that  to  Mrs.  Henderson. 

But  Eileen's  appearance,  as  she  emerged  upon  the 
chapel  stage  from  the  sheltering  screen  of  palms,  was  no 
disappointment  to  her  mother.  As  the  burst  of  sponta- 
neous applause  died  away — the  violinist  bowing  recog- 
nition, as  graciously  as  if  this  were  a  matter  of  daily  oc- 
currence— she  heard  Kitten  exclaim  to  the  girls  near  her : 

"Gee,  isn't  she  stunning!  If  ten  weeks  in  New  York 
could  do  that  for  Eileen  Trench,  ten  days  of  it  ought  to 
make  a  howling  beauty  of  me."  Then  she  clapped  her 
hand  to  her  mouth,  remembering  Mrs.  Trench's  lynx- 
ears. 


The  visit  was  one  continuous  triumphal  procession  for 
the  girl.  There  was  her  mother's  reception,  Friday 
afternoon,  at  which — according  to  the  formally  en- 
graved cards  of  invitation — the  best  people  of  Springdale 


2io  Indian  Summer 

were  requested  to  meet  Mrs.  Larimore  Trench.  But 
Eileen,  behind  the  coffee  urn,  was  the  real  attraction. 
On  Saturday  Mrs.  Henderson  and  Mrs.  Clarkson  joined 
in  a  musical  tea,  and  together  they  prevailed  on  the  girl 
to  play  Schubert's  Ave  Maria  at  church,  Sunday  morning. 
When  it  was  ended,  and  Sunday  night  saw  her  safely 
on  the  train,  her  mother  went  home  to  a  three  days'  sick 
headache.  If  she  could  "put  that  over"  on  the  smartest 
people  in  Springdale,  perhaps  there  was  nothing  to  fear. 
Larimore  had  some  ridiculous  story  he  used  to 
quote  .  .  .  about  a  boy  who  held  a  fox  under  his  cloak 
while  it  tore  his  vitals  out.  It  was  a  stolen  fox,  she  re- 
minded herself.  After  all,  it  didn't  matter  much  what 
you  did — so  long  as  you  had  the  grit  to  keep  it  under 
your  cloak. 


XXIX    The  Truth  that  is  Clean 


The  winter  wore  away.  Larimore  Trench  was  too 
deeply  occupied  to  give  much  time  to  his  small  family. 
Success  had  come  to  him  unsought:  not  the  success  he  had 
hoped  for  or  desired.  Griffith  Ramsay  opened  the  way 
when,  as  toast-master  at  a  convention  banquet,  he  intro- 
duced Lary  as  Consulting  Architect — a  title  the  opulent 
New  Yorker  took  seriously.  And  it  was  Ramsay  who 
looked  after  the  contracts,  stipulating  enormous  fees  for 
the  service  Lary  would  have  given  gratuitously,  had  he 
been  left  to  his  own  devices. 

"I  feel  like  a  robber,"  he  told  Judith  when  he  handed 
her  a  check  in  four  figures — compensation  for  work 
that  had  actually  consumed  only  a  few  hours  of  his  time. 
"You  know,  I  met  the  man  at  a  stag  dinner,  early  in  De- 
cember, and  took  a  real  liking  to  him.  He  had  an  option 
on  a  place,  and  he  asked  me  to  go  out  and  look  at  it. 
It  was  one  of  the  worst  atrocities  I  ever  saw — and  I 
didn't  mince  words  with  him.  It  was  such  a  bargain 
that  he  could  afford  to  spend  a  little  money  on  drastic 
changes — and  I  told  him  what  to  do.  I  have  often 
given  that  kind  of  advice  to  a  friend.  I  wouldn't  think 
of  sending  in  a  bill." 

"And  it  hurts  your  pride,  to  be  selling  your  taste." 

Lary  looked  at  her,  a  light  dawning  in  his  limpid 
brown  eyes. 

"You  are  the  most  remarkable  woman  in  the  world. 
You  have  the  insight  of  a  sage  .  .  .  and  the  intuition 

ai  i 


212  Indian  Summer 

of  a  poet.  I  didn't  know  what  was  wrong  with  me. 
And  in  a  second  you  put  your  finger  on  the  tender  spot. 
It  is  precisely  the  feeling  I  had  the  first  time  an  editor 
sent  me  a  check  for  a  poem.  You  don't  sell  things  that 
come  out  of  your  soul.  To  take  money  for  them  is 
like  rubbing  the  bloom  from  the  grape.  It  leaves  your 
soul  shiny  and  bare." 

"But,  Lary,  an  artist  takes  money  for  his  pictures. 
It  is  bad  for  his  art  if  he  lives  by  any  other  means. 
The  painter  who  has  no  need  to  work  is  almost  sure 
to  go  stale  in  a  few  years.  If  you  had  been  born  when 
Greece  was  at  the  climax  of  her  glory — " 

"I  would  have  been  an  artisan — taking  wages  for  my 
work,  like  Apollodorus  and  Praxiteles — with  no  more 
social  opportunity  and  aspiration  than  an  upper  servant," 
Lary  retorted,  laughing  whimsically.  "The  Greeks  had 
no  illusions  about  art.  It  was  as  closely  knit  with  the 
kitchen  as  with  the  temple.  This  idea  that  artists  are  fit 
associates  for  millionaires — that  is,  for  the  aristocracy 
— is  purely  a  figment  of  modern  times.  My  repugnance 
for  money  is  not  the  result  of  my  classical  training.  It 
was  burned  into  my  mind  by  the  gruelling  conflict  of 
opinions  between  my  father  and  mother.  My  father  and 
I  were  born  to  an  age  that  knows  only  the  money 
standard.  The  world — and  my  mother — are  not  to 
blame,  if  he  and  I  are  out  of  joint  with  the  times." 

"But  you  won't  let  it  hurt  you,  Lary  ...  let  it  em- 
bitter you?" 

"No,  sweetheart.  I'll  make  a  joke  of  it.  I'll  tell 
Ramsay  to  double  his  infamous  bills."  And  Larimore 
Trench  went  forth  to  rob  another  rich  man. 

II 

• 

Later  in  the  day  Laura  came  to  the  apartment.     It 


The  Truth  that  is  Clean          213 

was  a  dreary  February  morning  and  the  outlook  from  the 
front  windows  was  bleak  and  cheerless.  Eileen  had  sat 
for  an  hour  contemplating  the  waste  of  sullen  water, 
and  Judith  had  let  her  alone.  She  was  thinking  things 
out.  She  would  come  to  her  sister  for  help  when  she 
needed  it.  At  times  the  older  woman  could  follow  her 
thought  process  by  an  intuition  that  was  almost  uncanny. 
This  morning  not  a  glimmer  of  light  came  through. 
Scarcely  had  Mrs.  Ramsay  disposed  of  her  furs  and 
selected  her  favourite  rocker  when  the  girl  began,  her 
face  whiter  than  usual  and  her  lips  compressed: 

"Judith,  I  am  going  to  tell  her.  I  can't  go  on  feeling 
like  a  dirty  sneak." 

"You — what,  Eileen?"  Laura  asked,  her  hazel  eyes 
opening  in  wonder. 

"May  I,  Judith?     You  know  what  I  mean." 

"If  you  feel  that  it  is  right,  dear.  You  know  how 
it  looks  to  you."  . 

"Then  here  goes!  Mrs.  Ramsay,  you  and  your 
husband  have  been  perfectly  splendid  to  me — and  I  owe 
it  to  you,  not  to  have  you  go  on  this  way  any  longer. 
As  far  as  your  mother  is  concerned — she's  been  a  darling; 
but  I've  paid  that  with  my  violin.  I  don't  need  to  tell 
her.  But  I  do  need  to  tell  you  that  I  am  not  Mrs. 
Winthrop,  and  my  husband  didn't  drown  in  that  Alaska 
steamship  disaster.  I  am  Eileen  Trench — and  I  never 
had  a  husband.  ..."  She  set  her  teeth  hard,  then 
went  on  heroically:  "There  won't  be  any  name  for  the 
baby  that  comes,  the  first  of  May." 

"Eileen,  are  jou  mad!  Judith,  what  has  come  over 
the  girl?" 

"No.  It's  just  cold  facts.  I'm  not  twenty  years. 
I'll  be  seventeen,  the  last  of  March.  Long  before  I  was 
sixteen  I  was  crazy  mad  in  love  with  a  man.  It  was 


214  Indian  Summer 

mostly  my  fault — that  he  wasn't  the  hero  I  made  him 
out,  I  mean.  We  were  engaged  and  we  talked  things 
over — things  that  aren't  safe  for  a  girl  and  a  man  to 
talk  about  before  they  are  married.  I  don't  need  to 
tell  you  the  rest." 

"And  the  contemptible  cur  deserted  you?" 

"Not  exactly  .  .  .  deserted.  When  we  found  out,  he 
said  at  first  that  he  would  be  loyal,  and  would  marry  me 
after  he  got  through  with  college.  To  save  my  reputa- 
tion, he  wanted  me  to  commit  murder." 

"What  did  you  say  to  him  ?  How  did  you  answer  the 
cad?" 

"I  blacked  his  eye." 

The  words  fell  cold  and  mirthless. 

"I  was  going  to  kill  myself,  but  Judith  wouldn't  let 
me.  She  married  Lary,  so  that  they  could  take — " 

Laura  Ramsay's  usually  placid  face  took  on  an  expres- 
sion of  intense  emotion.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  walked 
hurriedly  to  the  window. 

"If  you  are  going  to  cut  me  off — well,  that's  all  the 
more  reason  why  I  had  to  tell  you,"  Eileen  said,  following 
her.  "It's  what  I  have  to  expect." 

"But  I  don't  intend  to  cut  you  off,  child.  Judith,  why 
couldn't  I  do  for  her  what  I  did  in  Nelka's  case? 
Especially  if  it  turns  out  to  be  a  little  girl.  Junior  is  wild 
for  a  sister — and  it's  the  only  way  I  can  hope  to  get  one 
for  him.  And  of  course  I'd  be  game,  if  it  were  another 
boy.  Won't  you,  Judith?  I'm  sure  Griff  would 
approve.  Why — why,  Eileen,  what  is  the  matter?" 

The  girl  had  flung  herself  on  her  knees,  her  face  in 
Judith's  lap,  her  slender  body  shaken  with  sobs.  When 
the  paroxysm  had  passed,  she  slipped  to  the  floor  and  sat 
looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  wry  smile. 

"There  is  only  one  stumbling  block  in  the  way,  Mrs. 


The  Truth  that  is  Clean  215 

Ramsay — and  that's  me.  Judith  and  I  are  going  to  the 
sanitarium,  the  middle  of  April.  After  the  baby  comes, 
I  am  to  hand  it  over  to  her  and  forget  about  it.  Why, 
I  can't.  I  croon  over  it  every  night,  in  my  dreams. 
When  I'm  wide  awake,  I  see  him,  a  splendid  man,thrilling 
audiences  with  his  violin.  Wouldn't  I  lose  my  head, 
some  day — go  raving  mad  and  tell  the  whole  thing?" 

"All  the  more  reason  why  it  should  be  in  the  nursery, 
out  at  Rye,  where  you  wouldn't  see  it.  Boy  or  girl,  you 
must  let  me  have  it.  The  child  will  be  a  musical  genius," 
Laura  cried,  her  eyes  beaming  with  expectant  mother- 
pride. 

Ill 

That  night  Judith  talked  it  over  with  Lary.  She  had 
known,  all  along,  that  the  thought  of  this  child,  with  the 
Marksley  brand,  filled  him  with  dread.  The  following 
day  Laura  came  again,  with  a  whole  chest  of  dainty 
things.  She  and  her  sister  had  made  them  before 
Junior's  coming,  and  he  was  such  a  robust  baby  that  they 
were  outgrown  before  they  had  been  worn.  Griff  was  as 
eager  as  she. 

Gradually,  as  the  weeks  passed,  Judith  divorced  her- 
self from  the  thought  of  the  child.  Had  she  a  right, 
when  the  Ramsays  offered  sanctuary  to  the  nameless  waif 
— especially  in  view  of  Eileen's  preternatural  mother- 
love,  and  the  great  loneliness  that  had  been  Lary's,  before 
her  coming?  There  might  some  day  be  a  child  of  her 
own.  Her  homesickness  for  Theodora  gave  her  pause 
— and  Theodora  had  not  twined  tendrils  of  helplessness 
around  her  heart.  Yes,  it  was  best  to  let  Laura  have  the 
baby.  .  .  . 


XXX    Katharsis 


March  came,  and  the  layette  was  practically  finished. 
Judith  Trench  looked  up  from  her  sewing  to  realize 
with  a  strange  thrill  that  it  was  just  a  year  since  first  she 
heard  the  name  of  Springdale.  She  and  Lary  would 
be  going  to  the  theatre,  that  evening.  She  wondered 
whether  he  had  remembered,  when  he  got  the  tickets. 
Eileen  was  leaving  for  Rye  on  an  early  afternoon  train — 
indeed  she  must  be  well  on  the  way,  going  directly  from 
Professor  Auersbach's  studio.  The  train  must  pass 
Pelham  in  a  few  minutes. 

A  year  ago,  Judith  Ascott  had  gone  out  to  Pelham 
with  the  buoyancy  of  a  toy  balloon  released  from  its 
tether,  to  break  the  epoch-making  news  to  her  mother. 
Now  the  house  at  Pelham  was  in  alien  hands.  Father 
was  still  abroad,  was  still  complaining  of  floating  specks 
in  the  air  and  a  disheartening  lack  of  appetite  for  break- 
fast. Mother  was  rapturous  over  the  new  house  Lary 
was  building  for  her.  Ben  was  eager  to  get  back  to 
America,  to  try  his  hand  at  concrete  construction.  Jack 
thought  he  wanted  to  be  a  landscape  architect — with 
brother  Lary  to  instruct  him.  That  would  beat  the 
Beaux  Arts  all  hollow. 

From  one  to  another  of  the  family,  her  mind  flitted. 
Had  they  not  accepted  Lary  without  reservation?  Was 
not  her  own  life  complete?  She  turned  questioning  eyes 
towards  the  door.  A  key  in  the  outer  lock.  Had  Lary 
come  home  early  .  .  .  remembering?  Was  he  ill? 

216 


Katharsis  217 

The  livingroom  door  opened,  slowly,  as  if  it  were  pushing 
some  imponderable  but  deadly  weight.  In  an  instant  she 
was  on  her  feet. 

"Eileen!     What  has  happened?" 

The  girl  sank  into  the  nearest  chair  and  buried  her 
face  from  sight.  After  a  moment  she  said,  in  a  voice 
hollow  and  remote : 

"There's  no  use  torturing  you  with  suspense.  I'm  not 
hurt." 

"But  something  has  happened  to  you — something 
dreadful." 

"Judith,  you  don't  need  to  go  out  of  your  way  to  hunt 
punishment,  when  you've  sinned.  And  you  don't  need  to 
dodge  it,  either.  A  little  while  ago  I  would  have  thrown 
myself  in  front  of  a  subway  train,  if  I  hadn't  been  a 
coward.  Last  summer  I  thought  I  had  done  something 
heroic.  But  when  I  saw  him,  this  afternoon — " 

"Hal  Marksley?     Eileen!" 

"Now  you  know  the  worst."  She  nodded  slowly. 
"If  you'll  let  me,  Judith,  I'll  tell  you  from  the  beginning. 
I  guess  I'm  like  mamma  in  that,  too.  She  has  to  tell 
a  thing  all  in  one  piece,  or  she  loses  the  thread  of  it.  In 
the  first  place,  I  had  a  great  lesson.  I  was  the  last, 
before  luncheon,  and  Professor  Auersbach  stopped  to 
compliment  me.  It  was  the  first  time.  He  explained 
the  meaning  of  hypsos,  the  sublime  reach  of  spiritual 
exaltation — and  he  said  it  had  come  into  my  playing 
because  of  what  I  had  suffered.  He  talked  like  Syd 
Schubert.  I  went  out  of  the  studio  walking  on  air.  I 
don't  know  what  I  ate — or  where.  All  I  remember  is 
that  I  left  too  large  a  tip,  because  the  change  came  out 
wrong. 

"I  went  to  the  Grand  Central  and  bought  a  ticket.  It 
was  ever  so  long  before  train  time,  but  I  thought  I'd 


218  Indian  Summer 

better  scout  around  and  see  how  to  get  down  to  the 
tracks.  You  know,  the  construction  people  change  the 
route  every  few  days.  The  first  passage  I  tried  had 
been  barricaded.  I  went  half  way  up,  the  stairs  when  I 
came  face  to  face  with  three  men.  The  one  in  the  middle 
was  Hal." 

"He  recognized  you?" 

"Not  at  first — and  I  hurried  past  them  and  into  a 
side  aisle.  It  was  a  blind  pocket,  and  before  I  could 
get  out  of  it  I  heard  him  calling  my  name.  Judith,  I 
was  all  alone.  Hundreds  of  people  within  hearing,  and 
I  was  all  alone  with  the  man  I  loathe.  It  was  like  a 
nightmare — my  feet  hobbled  with  ropes.  Before  I  knew 
it,  he  had  me  in  his  arms  and  was  kissing  me.  I  suppose 
I  fainted.  When  I  began  to  see  things  again,  we  were 
in  that  little  temporary  waiting-room,  and  my  head  was 
on  his  shoulder.  I  looked  at  him  through  a  mist  .  .  . 
and  every  minute  of  last  summer  rolled  over  me.  It 
was  a  flood  from  a  sewer.  They  say  you  review  your 
life  when  you  are  about  to  die.  You  don't  need  any 
hell  after  that." 

When  the  tumultuous  beating  of  her  heart  subsided  a 
little,  she  went  on: 

"He  wanted  to  call  a  taxicab  and  take  me  to  a  hotel. 
I  didn't  get  his  meaning  at  first.  When  I  did — life 
came  back  to  me.  I  suppose  the  people  around  us 
thought  we  were  a  married  couple,  having  our  first  public 
quarrel.  Once  he  looked  at  me  with  a  leer  and  said: 
'So  you  were  mistaken  about  what  you  told  me,  the 
first  of  September — or  else  you  took  my  advice.'  I  told 
him  I  was  mistaken  about  a  good  many  things,  last 
summer.  Then  he  said  he  had  gone  to  the  studio  to  look 
me  up,  after  his  sister  wrote  him  that  I  was  studying 


Katharsis  219 

music  in  New  York,  and  the  secretary  said  there  was  no 
one  enrolled  there  by  the  name  of  Trench.  He  chuckled 
and  said  I  was  a  smart  kid,  and  he  had  half  a  mind  to 
take  me  with  him  to  Rio." 

"Rio?" 

"Yes.  He  hasn't  been  at  Pratt  Institute  at  all.  He 
flunked  his  entrance  exams.  He  didn't  let  his  people 
know,  but  has  been  taking  all  the  money  they'd  sent  him. 
Has  a  position  in  a  Brazilian  importing  house,  and  has 
been  studying  Portugese  all  winter.  They  are  sending 
him  down  there  in  an  important  place — and  he  hopes 
he'll  never  see  this  ratty  old  country  again.  He  even 
said  he'd  marry  me,  if  .  .  ." 

"And  there  was  no  return  of  the  old  ardour?" 

"No,  Judith,  only  a  sick  disgust." 

II 

They  were  still  talking  when  Larimore  came  home, 
surprised  and  a  shade  annoyed  when  he  found  that  Eileen 
was  there.  He  had  but  two  tickets,  and  he  wanted  to 
be  alone  with  his  wife. 

"Don't  tell  him,"  the  girl  whispered  when  he  left  the 
room  to  dress  for  dinner.  "He  is  just  beginning  to 
respect  me  a  little.  I  so  want  his — respect." 

When  dinner  was  over  she  went  to  her  room.  No, 
she  was  not  ill.  She  only  wanted  to  be  alone.  If  Lary 
had  planned  an  evening  at  the  theatre,  thinking  that 
she  would  spend  the  night  at  Rye,  there  was  no  reason  for 
a  change  in  his  plans.  She  was  glad  they  were  going  out, 
so  that  she  might  be  alone.  She  knew  the  meaning  of 
hypsos,  now  that  she  had  made  the  descent,  within  the 
brief  space  of  an  hour,  from  that  height  to  bathos,  the 
lowest  depth  of  sordid  physical  reality.  She  wanted  to 


220  Indian  Summer 

play  again  the  winged  notes  that  had  carried  her  beyond 
the  farthest  reach  of  her  own  being — to  purge  her  soul 
of  the  earth-taint  that  was  in  her. 

"You  are  perfectly  sure  you  are  all  right}?"  Judith 
asked  when  she  told  her  good-night.  "You  won't  brood 
or  cry?" 

"No,  I  am  past  all  that.  When  you  strike  bottom- 
there  isn't  any  farther  to  go." 

Ill 

After  the  play  there  was  a  little  supper,  and  then  the 
long  ride  in  the  taxicab.  It  was  nearing  two  o'clock  when 
Judith  looked  into  Eileen's  room.  The  bed  was  empty. 
In  swift  alarm  she  turned,  to  catch  a  faint  cry  from  the 
bathroom. 

"I  came  in  here  to  get  some  hot  water — and — I 
couldn't  get  back,"  the  girl  groaned,  striving  to  make 
light  of  a  desperate  situation. 

"Oh,  it  was  heartless  of  me  to  leave  you  alone,  at  such 
a  time." 

"Not  at  all.  I've  had  a  wonderful  evening.  I  took 
my  violin  .  .  .  and  we  worked  it  out  together.  1  went 
to  bed  and  slept  like  a  rock  until — oh,  oh!" 

"Lary!"  Judith  cried  in  fright,  "telephone  for  a 
doctor.  Eileen  is  dreadfully  ill."  The  tortured  girl 
had  striven  to  rise,  but  fell  back  convulsed  on  the  rug. 

When  Larimore  had  carried  her  to  her  bed,  he  said 
huskily : 

"Only  this  evening,  when  we  were  going  out,  I  was 
thinking  how  fortunate  it  was  to  have  a  doctor  here  in 
the  apartment.  He  came  up  in  the  elevator  with  us.  He 
may  not  care  to  take  this  kind  of  case,  but — " 

"Lary,  you  must  be  mistaken.  It's  not  to  be  for 
almost  two  months.  And  if  you  were  right — wouldn't  it 


Katharsis  221 

be  over  by  this  time?     She's  been  suffering  two  hours." 

"The  first  one  is  often  premature.  Eileen  is  a  highly 
emotional  nature.  And  I  suspected  at  dinner  that  some- 
thing was  wrong.  As  to  the  duration — no  one  can  gauge 
that.  I  was  with  my  mother  for  three  hours  before 
Theodora  was  born.  My  father  was  out  of  town,  and 
mamma  wouldn't  have  Sylvia  around.  Bob  had  been 
sent  for  the  nurse,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait. 
Dr.  Schubert  knew  my  mother's  habits.  He  said  there 
was  no  hurry."  They  had  reached  the  outer  door  of  the 
apartment,  his  hand  on  the  knob.  "In  those  three  hours, 
Judith,  I  was  transformed  from  a  sentimental  boy  to  a 
morbid,  cynical  man.  Syd  has  tried  to  change  my  view- 
point; but  all  his  reasoning  is  empty.  He  will  never  be 
called  upon  to  bear  children." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  returned  with  the  physician, 
in  bathrobe  and  slippers.  It  was  almost  morning 
before  a  nurse  arrived;  but  one  of  the  maids  was  herself 
a  mother,  and  intelligent  help  was  not  wanting.  After  an 
hour  Lary  led  his  wife  from  the  room. 

"Sweetheart,  you  can't  help  her,  and  you  are  enduring 
every  pang  she  suffers.  Her  pain  is  mostly  physical  now. 
Yours  is  both  physical  and  mental.  You  must  not 
squander  your  strength.  We  will  need  it  for  the  harder 
part  to  come.  Won't  you  lie  down  and  try  to  sleep?" 

"Sleep !  when  the  most  terribly  significant  thing  in  the 
world  is  under  way?  How  can  we  grow  so  callous?  I 
never  realized  the  marvel  of  life  until  now.  I  must  go 
through  every  heart-throb  of  it.  I  need  it!  I  will  have 
more  pity  for  your  mother,  more  toleration  for  my  own 
mother,  more  love  for  you,  Lary — if  there  is  any  more." 

Larimore  Trench  closed  his  eyes,  bitter  self-abasement 
surging  through  his  being.  He  had  never  been  at  grips 
with  life.  Nay,  rather,  he  had  turned  from  it  in  a 


222  Indian  Summer 

superior  attitude  of  disdain.  He  would  not  touch  the 
woman  he  loved.  She  was  too  holy  for  his  coward's 
hands. 

IV 

As  the  grey  dawn  was  breaking  over  the  snow-whitened 
Hudson,  the  nurse  aroused  the  two  who  dozed  in  their 
chairs  in  the  livingroom. 

"You'd  better  come,"  she  said  excitedly.  "Mrs. 
Winthrop  isn't  going  to  hold  out." 

At  the  door  the  physician  waved  them  back.  Judith 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Eileen's  deathlike  face  and  she  ran 
sobbing  down  the  hall.  A  long  time  she  stood,  her 
husband's  cherishing  arms  around  her.  Then  a  petulant 
wail  from  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  long  hall  told. them 
it  was  over. 

At  noon  a  letter  to  David  was  posted. 

"You  must  be  prepared  for  the  Worst.  Early  this  morning  a 
little  girl  came.  It  weighs  less  than  four  pounds.  The  doctor 
says,  considering  its  premature  condition,  the  extreme  youth  of 
the  mother,  and  the  circumstances  of  delivery,  there  is  not  one 
chance  in  ten  that  it  will  survive.  We  are  more  concerned  for 
the  mother.  I  will  telegraph  you,  only  in  case  of  extremity." 

V 

Laura  Ramsay  had  come,  in  response  to  a  long-distance 
call,  and  she  and  Judith  stood  beside  the  nurse  when, 
after  twelve  hours  of  earth-life,  the  unformed  morsel  of 
humanity  gave  up  the  struggle. 

It  was  not  until  the  following  morning  that  they  told 
Eileen  her  baby  had  died.  Lary  was  with  them.  He 
had  looked  for  a  passionate  outburst.  He  could  not 
fathom  her  mood  as  she  lay,  quite  tranquil,  on  her 
pillow,  a  smile  gathering  radiance  in  her  deepset  eyes. 


Katharsis  223 

"It's  the  only  way,"  she  said  at  length.  "I'm  glad 
it  won't  have  to  face  life — with  such  a  handicap.  It's 
better  for  all  of  us." 

Lary  stooped  and  kissed  her.  He  wondered  why 
women  were  so  much  stronger  than  men,  why,  in  most  of 
life's  crises,  they  must  bear  the  shock. 


XXXI   A  New  Hilltop 


Eileen's  strength  returned  slowly.  It  was  the  middle 
of  April  before  she  ventured  out  to  Rye,  a  pallid  wraith 
of  her  former  self.  Griff  and  Laura  were  afraid  for  her 
...  a  fear  that  was  transformed  into  action  by  the 
potent  chemistry  of  a  woman's  mind. 

"Round  up  a  bunch  of  Lary's  patrons,"  Mrs.  Ramsay 
said  in  her  decisive  way,  "and  convince  them  that  they 
ought  to  send  him  abroad  to  buy  furnishings  for  their 
new  homes.  He  and  Judith  can  take  Eileen  along.  The 
sea  voyage  will — " 

"Capital!"  Griff  cut  in.  "Only  yesterday  I  had  Park- 
inson on  my  neck  for  an  hour,  howling  about  the  difficulty 
of  getting  draperies  and  rugs  for  the  stunning  place  Lary 
has  made  of  his  old  junk  heap.  Commissioned  a  fellow 
in  Paris  to  send  him  some  things  and — Lord  love  us! 
You  should  have  seen  the  consignment!  It  wasn't  the 
price.  But  Parkinson  hates  to  be  laughed  at,  when  he's 
been  stung." 

"Lary's  orderly  mind  would  take  care  of  the  needs  of  a 
dozen  men  like  Parkinson,  and  it  would  give  him  a  chance 
to  see  Europe — right!" 

II 

Thus  it  came  about  that  on  a  serene  May  morning 
Judith  Trench  dismissed  the  maids,  closed  the  apartment 
and  set  her  face  towards  the  rising  sun.  For  her  it  was 
the  real  adventure.  She  had  looked  at  Europe  so  often. 

224 


A  New  Hilltop  225 

Now  she  would  see  through  the  shell,  with  Lary's  eyes. 

At  the  Cherbourg  pier  Mr.  Denslow  met  them. 
Mamma  and  the  boys  could  hardly  wait  to  see  Judith's 
new  husband.  But  after  a  week  Lary's  importance  was 
blurred,  sent  into  almost  complete  occultation,  as  Eileen's 
vivid  youth  asserted  itself.  Ben  was  her  slave  from  the 
first.  The  night  after  they  left  her  in  Brussels,  to  have 
a  few  lessons  with  Ysaye,  and  Lary  and  Judith  set  forth 
on  their  real  honeymoon,  he  confided  to  his  mother  that 
he  was  going  to  add  another  Trench  to  the  Denslow 
family,  as  soon  as  he  was  sure  he  could  earn  a  living  for 
two. 

"Have  you  asked  her?"  Mrs.  Denslow  quizzed. 

"No.  She  thinks  I'm  a  boy.  You  might  tell  her  that 
I'm  nearly  five  years  older  than  she.  I  thought  I'd  grow 
whiskers — to  impress  her." 

Ill 

From  Antwerp  to  Munich,  from  Venice  to  Constanti- 
nople, and  thence  by  boat  to  Naples  and  the  eastern  coast 
of  Spain,  Lary  and  the  other  half  of  his  being  wandered, 
too  happy  to  remember  the  fiery  ordeal  wherein  their 
severed  selves  had  been  fused  again.  When  they 
reached  Paris,  the  middle  of  August,  a  great  pile  of  let- 
ters awaited  them.  Lary  thrust  one  of  them  into  his  in- 
side pocket.  It  was  from  his  mother.  Another  he  tore 
open  with  eager  fingers.  A  moment  later  he  handed  it 
to  Judith,  his  eyes  shining.  It  bore  the  signature  of  a 
discriminating  editor: 

"I  never  knew  why  Renaissance  art,  with  all  its  brilliance  and 
charm,  was  unsatisfying  to  me,  until  I  read  your  keenly  analytical 
essay.  We  would  be  glad  to  consider  a  series  of  essays,  covering 
other  architectural  periods  and  styles." 

Mr.  Denslow  read  the  letter  with  indifference,  but  the 


226  Indian  Summer 

accompanying  check  had  weight.  He  was  coming  to  be- 
lieve that  his  daughter  had  made  a  first-rate  investment 
when  she  went  to  look  after  her  interests  in  Olive  Hill, 
and  incidentally  acquired  ,a  husband  who  could  make 
good  in  New  York  in  six  months. 

Judith  followed  Lary  to  his  room,  whither  he  had  re- 
treated to  read  the  letters  from  home.  One  glance  at 
his  face  satisfied  her  that  all  was  not  well.  A  moment 
he  wavered,  on  the  point  of  thrusting  that  disturbing  let- 
ter out  of  sight.  Then  he  recognized,  in  his  feeling,  not 
loyalty  to  his  mother  but  a  raw  personal  chagrin.  Judith 
was  his  wife.  She  had  earned  the  right  to  share  even  his 
humiliation.  Yet  he  dared  not  look  at  her  while  she 
read  the  closely  written  pages. 

His  father  was  breaking.  It  was  his  duty  to  come 
home  and  assume  the  burden,  now  that  the  reason  for  his 
absence  from  Springdale,  with  Judith  and  Eileen,  had 
been  removed  by  an  unhoped-for  act  of  Providence. 
The  building  of  a  great  place  like  the  Marksley  home 
was  too  much  for  David,  who  never  could  shoulder  re- 
sponsibility. She  had  tried  to  fire  his  ambition — make 
him  see  how  proud  he  ought  to  be,  to  get  a  chance  to  put 
up  such  fine  buildings.  It  was  wasted  breath.  He  went 
about  as  if  he  had  a  sack  of  concrete  on  his  shoulders. 
He  would  certainly  have  to  forfeit  money  on  the  contract. 
She  was  outdone  with  him,  and  must  have  help. 

"Dearest,  cable  your  father  to  throw  over  that  con- 
tract, no  matter  what  it  costs.  Can't  she  see  that  his  soul 
is  being  ground — because  of  you  and  Eileen?" 

"I  couldn't  send  such  a  cablegram,  dear.  I  didn't  want 
ever  to  see  Springdale  again.  You  and  Eileen  can  stay 
on  here  with  your  mother." 

"But,  Lary,  I  shouldn't  mind  Springdale.  David  and 
Theo  are  there — and  an  arbour  with  a  summer  house— 


A  New  Hilltop  227 

and  Indian  Summer  coming.  It  would  be  worth  all  the 
rest  ...  a  cheap  price  to  pay,  for  another  such  after- 
noon as  we  had  last  November,  on  the  road  to  Littlefield. 
Is  it  always  as  glorious  as  that,  Lary?" 

''Usually,  but  not  always.  I  remember,  once  when  I 
was  a  young  boy,  there  was  no  frost  at  all  until  the  first 
week  of  December.  The  glorious  tints  and  that  silver 
haze  in  the  air  are  the  result  of  a  heavy  frost  that  catches 
the  foliage  in  full  sap.  But  that  year — it  was  the  winter 
Theo  was  born — the  trees  were  a  sickly  gray-green,  and 
all  the  shrubs  and  vines  looked  as  if  they  were  suffering 
from  some  wasting  disease.  The  leaves  had  shrivelled, 
and  still  they  clung.  The  morning  after  the  frost  they 
fell  like  rain.  Within  three  days  the  branches  were  stark 
and  bare.  It  was  absolutely  startling." 

"You  had  no  crimson  and  gold,  no  chiffon  webs  on  the 
grass?" 

"Not  that  year.  It  was  an  open  winter,  with  a  frost 
late  in  the  spring,  that  killed  all  the  fruit.  Don't  set  your 
heart  on — I  mean,  dear,  don't  go  back  to  Springdale  .  .  . 
just  for  the  Indian  Summer." 

"I  was  going,  Lary,  to  comfort  your  father." 

IV 

That  evening  they  told  Mrs.  Denslow  that  they  would 
book  passage  for  an  early  return  to  New  York.  And 
that  lady,  whose  plans  had  been  changed  so  often  within 
the  past  year,  was  glad  to  have  her  shifting  course  in  life 
directed  by  some  one  with  a  real  necessity.  They  would 
all  go  home  together,  especially  as  Ben  was  eager  to  get 
to  work.  Not  at  his  instance,  but  rather  because  the  girl 
promised  relief  from  the  boredom  that  had  begun  to 
weigh  heavy  on  her,  Mrs.  Denslow  urged  Eileen  to  spend 
the  winter  in  New  York. 


228  Indian  Summer 

"Papa's  health  is  failing.  He  needs  me,"  was  the  em- 
inently satisfactory  reply.  To  Judith  the  girl  confided 
another  reason.  The  apartment  overlooking  the  Hud- 
son held  memories  she  did  not  wish  to  revive.  She  was 
done  with  that  chapter  of  her  story.  She  had  climbed, 
with  bleeding  feet,  to  a  hilltop  .  .  .  and  the  future  lay 
misty  with  promise  before  her. 


Book  Three 
Belated  Frost 


XXXII    Lavinia  Flounders 

I 

It  was  like  the  home-coming  of  a  national  hero.  The 
college  paper  and  the  little  local  daily  had  announced  that 
Miss  Eileen  Trench  had  played  at  a  private  audience  with 
the  King  of  Belgium — the  paragraph  inspired  by  her 
mother,  when  one  of  the  letters  from  Brussels  brought 
the  humorous  announcement  that  His  Majesty  had 
stopped  his  motor  car  in  front  of  her  window  while  she 
was  practicing  a  brilliant  Chopin  number. 

Judith  thought  the  crowd  was  at  the  station  as  a  tri- 
bute to  Lary's  recent  triumphs.  And  Lary  thought,  bit- 
terly, that  his  New  York  success  had  won  him  the  plau- 
dits of  his  native  town.  Theodora  told  them  both  the 
truth,  on  the  way  home.  She  was  afraid  too  much  adula- 
tion would  turn  Eileen's  head. 

At  first  they  did  not  miss  David  in  the  throng.  A  year 
ago  he  and  Theodora  had  stood  alone  on  the  little  station 
platform.  Judith  knew  why  he  was  not  there  now. 
Eileen  knew,  too,  and  her  eyes  darkened  with  suffering. 
He  was  at  the  gate  as  they  approached.  Lary  caught  his 
breath  sharply,  as  he  took  in  the  shrunken  figure  and  the 
mournful  eyes.  Eileen  leaped  from  the  cab  and  ran  to 
greet  him. 

"Papa,  darling!" 

He  looked  at  her  as  one  awakening  from  deep  sleep. 
Then  all  at  once  the  smile  broke  ...  it  spread,  like 
ripples  on  the  surface  of  a  placid  pool.  Every  emotion 
of  his  heart  was  recorded  on  that  transparent  face.  The 

231 


232  Indian  Summer 

blue  eyes  beamed  with  incredible  joy,  as  he  held  out  his 

arms. 

"It's  my  little  girl.     I  thought  I  had  lost  you." 

"No,  daddy  dear,  it's  only  that  I  have  found  myself." 

Lavinia  hurried  into  the  house.     She  could  not  bear 

such  spectacles  in  public.     What  would  the  neighbours 

think? 

II 

The  following  day  an  astounding  thing  came  to  pass. 
The  president  of  the  college  and  the  dean  of  the  musical 
faculty  called  on  Miss  Trench.  They  wanted  to  offer 
her  a  position  in  the  conservatory.  Naturally  it  could 
not  be  an  actual  professorship.  A  seventeen-year-old 
girl  .  .  .  without  a  degree.  They  thought  she  might 
give  recitals  in  the  neighbouring  towns,  and  take  pupils 
in  advanced  technique.  It  would  mean  much  to  the  col- 
lege to  announce  an  instructor  who  had  studied  with  the 
great  Ysaye.  No  one  need  know  how  young  she  was. 
Indeed  she  was  altogether  different  from  the  immature 
girl  they  remembered — quite  dignified  and  impressive. 
Marvellously  changed. 

"If  they  knew  what  changed  her,"  Mrs.  Trench  re- 
flected, her  gorge  rising,  "they  wouldn't  be  flattering  her 
this  way."  It  was  a  mistake  to  tell  that  about  the  King 
of  Belgium.  She  hadn't  thought  about  the  effect  on 
Eileen.  Of  late  she  blundered  at  every  turn.  Somehow 
things  were  slipping  out  of  her  grasp. 

After  they  had  gone,  Eileen  ran  breathless  to  Vine 
Cottage  to  tell  Judith.  She  could  not  contemplate  any 
step  without  that  guidance  or  approval. 

"Lary  will  be  pleased.  This  will  put  an  end  to  your 
mother's  plan  of  having  you  enter  the  freshman  class  next 


Lavinia  Flounders  233 

Monday.  But  .  .  .  Eileen,  I  have  an  idea.  You  are 
not  going  to  stop  studying.  I  wonder  if  you  and  I 
couldn't — I'm  a  horribly  uneducated  person." 

"With  Lary  for  tutor,  you  mean?  Well,  in  the  first 
place,  my  brother's  no  salesman  when  it  comes  to  the 
things  he  knows.  He  can  lay  them  out  on  the  counter 
and  let  you  pick  what  you  want.  What  I  want  most  is 
Latin.  And  he  thinks  it  is  bald  and  plebeian,  compared 
with  Greek.  Syd  reads  Horace,  in  the  original,  to  rest 
him  when  he's  tired  and  can't  get  his  mind  off  of  the  sick 
babies  and  their  fool  mothers.  I'm  crazy  to  translate 
Ovid  and—" 

"Syd's  just  the  thing.  Don't  tell  Lary,  but  I  found- 
ered on  the  Greek  alphabet.  It  simply  wouldn't  stick  in 
my  memory.  I  substituted  organic  chemistry.  My  clas- 
sicist husband  would  be  disgusted." 

"Lary's  a  prig — and  I  love  him !  Judith,  it  was  worth 
it — just  to  get  acquainted  with  my  brother." 

Ill 

From  Vine  Cottage  she  went  to  the  office  for  David's 
stamp  of  approval.  She  had  once  called  her  father  a 
rubber  stamp.  She  thought  of  it  now,  with  stinging  cha- 
grin. Would  not  he  serve  as  her  anchor,  as  Judith  had 
been  her  pilot?  Had  she  anything  to  fear?  As  she 
walked  past  the  clump  of  shrubbery  on  the  campus,  where 
Hal  Marksley  had  kissed  her  that  first  time,  she  thought 
with  a  thrill  of  exultation  that  her  craft  had  outrun  the 
storm. 

From  her  father's  arms  she  hurried  to  Dr.  Schubert's 
office  to  tell  the  joyful  and  as  yet  half  apprehended  news. 
And  the  man  who  had  heard  her  first  shrill  cry  of  protest 
against  the  life  that  was  not  of  her  choosing,  drew  her 


234  Indian  Summer 

to  him  and  kissed  her.  The  act  was  paternal.  She  had. 
always  been  more  at  home  with  him  than  with  those  of 
her  own  blood. 

"Poor  old  Syd,"  she  beamed,  "he  doesn't  know  what 
he's  in  for."  And  Sydney,  coming  through  the  laboratory 
door  with  a  microscope  slide  in  one  hand  and  a  bottle  of 
red  colouring  fluid  in  the  other,  put  up  his  mouth  for  the 
customary  salutation. 

"No  more  of  that,  old  fellow.  I'm  a  young  lady  now. 
Besides  you're  going  to  be  my  preceptor,  and  it's  bad 
form  for  the  dominie  to  kiss  his  pupils.  You're  to  teach 
Judith  and  me,  and  you  couldn't  bestow  osculations  on 
one  and  not  on  the  other.  Now  could  you  ?" 

"I  should  think  Judith  would  be  lovely  to  kiss." 

"She  is  ...  but  you  and  Lary  can't  go  out  in  the  alley 
and  fight  duels.  And  while  we  are  on  the  subject — you 
and  Papa  Schubert  are  ages  behind  the  times — with  all 
your  X-rays  and  bacteriological  tests.  In  Europe  they 
have  decided  that  kissing  is  unsanitary.  Disease  germs 
are  carried  that  way." 

"Yes,"  the  elder  assented,  "the  dangerous  little  amor- 
ococcus  is  usually  conveyed  from  lip  to  lip." 

Syd  changed  the  subject.  He  had  never  been  seriously 
touched  by  love.  But  he  thought  the  shaft  of  his  father's 
playful  humour  might  carry  a  poisoned  barb  for  the  girl. 
He  demanded,  with  a  grimace: 

"Why  don't  you  take  me  into  your  confidence  about  the 
preceptorship?  What  do  you  need  to  learn  .  .  .  after 
Brussels  and  Paris?" 

"We  had  thought  about  Latin — and  anything  else  you 
happen  to  have  in  your  system  that  would  help  us  to  shine 
as  intellectuals.  But,  seriously,  Syd,  I  want  you  to  do 
one  thing  for  me.  Get  this  teaching  idea  across  to  me. 
You  remember  how  you  gave  me  the  legato — when 


Lavinia  Flounders  235 

Prexie  Irwin  was  making  us  whack  the  strings  with  the 
bow — everything  jumpy  staccato,  don't  you  remember? 
And  how  you  showed  me,  in  five  minutes,  how  to  produce 
the  singing  tones?  I  know  how  to  do  it;  but  you'll  have 
to  show  me  how  to  teach  the  other  fellow." 

IV 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  her,  Dr.  Schubert 
said  jubilantly: 

"The  child  isn't  spoiled  a  bit.  I've  been  afraid  she'd 
come  home  sophisticated  and  world-wise.  She's  just  an 
innocent  girl,  in  spite  of  her  long  skirts." 

"Yes,"  Sydney  said,  with  a  catch  in  his  throat,  "she's 
as  pure  and  fair  as  a  May  morning — and  the  fairest 
mornings  are  always  the  ones  that  follow  the  darkest 
nights.  Father,  couldn't  you  trump  up  some  excuse  to 
bring  her  here  to  stay  with  us  ...  keep  her  away  from 
her  mother  as  much  as  possible?" 

"Curious,  Syd,  but  I  was  going  to  speak  to  you  about 
that  very  thing.  David  came  to  me,  when  he  knew 
Eileen  was  coming  home  and  asked  me — oh,  it  was  tough 
for  him  to  do  it.  He's  so  damnably  loyal !  Don't  you 
think  we  could  fit  up  the  room  next  to  Nanny's,  so  that 
the  child  could  sleep  here,  the  nights  when  she's  going  to 
have  early  classes  at  the  college?  It's  a  shame  to  de- 
prive David  of  even  that  much  of  her  company.  But 
we'll  make  it  up  to  him  in  ways  his  wife  doesn't  suspect — 
if  we  can  inject  enough  guile  into  him  to  enable  him  to 
play  his  part  without  fumbling.  He  feels  that  she  must, 
must  be  kept  away  from  her  mother." 

"What  is  the  trouble  with  David?"  Syd  asked  abruptly. 
"You've  doped  him  on  tonics  all  summer,  and  he  doesn't 
improve  in  the  least." 

"The    climacteric — and   his   wife's   merciless    tongue. 


236  Indian  Summer 

David  is  approaching  fifty.  A  man's  mental  and  physi- 
cal being  undergoes  a  subtle  change  in  that  year.  It's 
not  so  crucial  as  the  grand  climacteric — the  transforma- 
tion from  manhood  to  age — that  comes  at  sixty-three. 
You  young  doctors  will  be  telling  us  that  it  is  an  exploded 
theory;  but  I  have  followed  it  for  forty  years.  To  a 
sensitive  chap  like  David  Trench,  it's  serious.  Just  this 
year,  when  he  ought  to  be  coddled  and  petted,  his  wife 
seasons  his  food  with  gall  and  puts  a  dash  of  aqua  fortis 
in  his  tea. 

"I've  ordered  him  to  sleep  in  a  room  by  himself,  with 
the  door  locked,  so  that  she  couldn't  wake  him  up  with 
her  nagging  and  upbraiding.  I  told  her,  point-blank, 
that  she  was  killing  him — and  she  did  what  I  might  have 
expected." 

"Yes,  she  'slipped  from  under'  by  writing  Lary  that 
she  was  being  terribly  set  upon  by  his  father,  and  it  was 
his  duty  to  come  home.  Father" — Syd's  blue  eyes 
blazed — "why  didn't  David  take  a  riding  whip  to  his  wife 
the  first  time  she — " 

The  man  who  could  look  beneath  sex  interrupted  with 
an  impatient  gesture. 

"David  is  a  woman.  More  than  that,  Sydney,  Mrs. 
Trench  is  a  man — trapped  in  a  woman's  body.  When 
nature  makes  a  blunder  like  that,  there's  usually  the  devil 
to  pay.  I  have  to  keep  reminding  myself  of  that  fact — 
or  I'd  be  in  danger  of  poisoning  Lavinia  Trench." 


XXXII    The  Statue  and  the  Bust 


Autumn  was  on  the  threshold  of  winter  when  Lavinla 
decided  that  things  had  to  take  a  turn.  Eileen  was 
spending  three  mornings  a  week  at  the  college,  which  ne- 
cessitated her  absence  from  home  practically  half  the 
time.  She  was  uniformly  polite  and  gentle  with  her 
mother,  an  attitude  that  was  not  wholly  the  result  of 
Judith's  stern  schooling.  Under  the  whip  of  her  own 
discipline,  she  sought  to  round  off  the  rough  corners,  to 
modulate  her  voice  and  temper  her  diction.  Her  out- 
bursts of  picturesque  speech  were  reserved  for  Dr.  Schu- 
bert and  Syd,  with  Nanny  in  the  background,  shaking  her 
ample  sides  with  adoring  laughter.  Now  there  would  be 
a  fortnightly  concert  trip,  and  some  elective  work  in  the 
academic  department,  which  promised  further  separation 
from  the  chilly  atmosphere  of  her  home. 

"Judith,  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,"  Mrs.  Trench 
began,  and  the  stern  set  of  her  jaw  left  no  doubt  that  the 
interview  would  be  unpleasant.  "I  don't  like  the  way 
Eileen  is  acting." 

"Every  one  else  does."  Judith  sought  to  be  imper- 
sonal. She  had  been  expecting  some  such  outburst  and 
had  framed  a  line  of  defence,  against  a  possible  attack. 

"That's  just  it!  Everybody  in  Springdale  thinks  she 
has  done  something  fine  in  going  away  to  New  York  and 
Europe,  and  coming  back  here  to  teach  in  the  college  be- 
fore she's  even  been  a  student.  You  are  making  a  rank 
hypocrite  of  her." 

237 


238  Indian  Summer 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you — who  else  but  you?  You  did  the  whole 
thing.  I  am  sure  Larimore  is  as  disgusted  as  I  am;  but 
he  doesn't  dare  to  say — " 

"We  won't  discuss  my  relations  with  my  husband." 

Lavinia's  face  flamed  scarlet  and  she  tugged  at  the 
collar  of  her  elaborate  silk  waist.  But  speech  was  not 
wanting,  for  more  than  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  what  other  wild-goose  schemes 
you  have  for  her." 

Judith  shifted  impatiently  in  her  chair.  "You  have  a 
grievance.  I  wish  you  would  be  specific.  Eileen  is 
surely  not  causing  you  any  anxiety.  She  is  growing  into 
a  beautiful  young  woman  and  she  has  the  respect  of  the 
entire  community." 

"Respect!  Yes!"  The  words  crackled.  "The  whole 
town  respects  her.  You  can't  see  what  that  means. 
You  have  no  religion  and  no  moral  sense  of  your  own. 
For  a  girl  to  do  what  she  did — and  then  walk  right  back 
here  into  a  position  that  she  never  would  have  had,  if 
she'd  been  a  good  girl,  is  a  positive  slur  on  religion." 

Judith  gasped.  She  wanted  to  laugh — to  take  her 
mother-in-law  by  the  shoulders  and  shake  her.  But 
Lavinia  had  not  done  speaking: 

"It  says  in  the  Bible—" 

"It  says  a  good  many  things  in  the  Bible.  You  take 
from  it  what  appeals  to  you — and  shape  your  religion  to 
suit  your  own  needs." 

Lavinia  was  not  slow  to  catch  an  idea  that  could  be 
stopped  by  the  mesh  of  her  mental  net.  Her  son's  phil- 
osophy usually  passed  through  without  leaving  a  frag- 
ment. But  this  idea  was  large  enough  to  be  arrested. 
Two  facts  conspired  to  give  it  substance  and  form.  For 
his  Sunday  sermon,  the  minister  had  combined  a  passage 


The  Statue  and  the  Bust  239 

from  Isaiah  with  another  from  the  Epistle  to  the  He- 
brews. And — wholly  unrelated,  but  subtly  significant — 
Lavinia  had  just  finished  an  elaborate  gelatine  dessert 
for  dinner. 

"You  mean  that  we  pick  from  the  Bible  what  we  want 
and  fit  it  together." 

"Practically  that.  We  can't  get  anything  out  of  a 
book  unless  we  have  in  our  own  minds  the  vessels  to 
carry  away  the  meaning.  A  cult  or  a  religion  is  nothing 
more  than  the  solidifying  of  a  group  of  ideas.  The 
Christian  religion — " 

"Like  lemon  jelly  in  a  mould,"  the  woman  said,  think- 
ing aloud.  Then,  arousing  herself  to  the  business  at 
hand,  she  pursued:  "That  may  be  all  true  enough  about 
religion;  but  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  Eileen,  and  the  way 
she's  acting." 

"I  asked  you  to  be  definite.  What  has  she  done  that 
displeased  you?" 

"Staying  at  Dr.  Schubert's,  three  nights  in  the  week — 
with  no  woman  there  except  a  housekeeper.  What  will 
the  neighbours  say?" 

"Have  you  heard  them  say  anything?" 

"No,  but  they're  likely  to.  I'm  sure  I'd  think  it  was 
queer  if  Ina  Stevens — " 

"I  wouldn't  suggest  it  to  them.  And  another  thing — 
I  wouldn't  say  a  word  to  Eileen — if  I  were  you.  She  is 
doing  so  well  that  it  would  break  Lary's  heart  to  have 
her  thrown  back  on  the  old  life.  There  is  only  one  dan- 
ger, as  he  sees  it.  She  has  a  strong  vein  of  stubbornness 
in  her  nature." 

"Yes,  she  gets  that  from  her  father,"  Lavinia  snapped. 

"No,  she  doesn't  get  it  from  her  father.  There  is  no 
obstinacy  in  father,  except  his  stubborn  clinging  to  his 
ideals.  You  can't  deal  with  Eileen  as  you  did  with 


240  Indian  Summer 

Sylvia,    and  you'll  play  havoc  with   her   if  you   try." 

"No  I  Sylvia  never  caused  me  a  moment's  anxiety  in 
her  life." 

Judith  ignored  the  palpable  falsehood.  "You  must 
know  that  Eileen  couldn't  have  finer  moral  influence  than 
that  of  Dr.  Schubert  and  his  son.  And  my  faithful 
Nanny  is  no  ordinary  servant.  She  was  more  to  me  than 
my  own  mother,  when  I  was  a  girl." 

The  innocent  remark  was  flint  and  steel,  with  Lavinia's 
powder  heap  in  dangerous  proximity.  "I  suppose  your 
mother  was  delighted  with  that.  But  of  course  she  was 
a  rich  woman,  and  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  moral  training  of 
her  children.  I  can  say  for  myself  that  I  never  shirked 
my  duty — and  I  don't  intend  to  hand  it  over  to  you  or 
Nanny  or  Dr.  Schubert  now.  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  wouldn't  say  a  word  about  this;  but  it's  grinding  my 
heart  out.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer." 

"Mother,  I  don't  follow  you  at  all.  I  asked  you  to 
be  frank  with  me." 

"Very  well,  I'll  put  it  so  plain  that  you  can't  pretend 
you  don't  understand.  How  would  you  feel  if  you  had 
a  daughter,  and  some  stranger  came  along  and  took  that 
girl's  life  clear  out  of  your  hands?  I  haven't  a  word  to 
say  about  her.  She  runs  to  you  for  all  sorts  of  things — 
clothes — as  if  I  wouldn't  know  what  was  stylish  or  be- 
coming. If  she's  in  doubt  about  what  to  do,  she  talks  it 
over  with  Larimore  or  Syd.  When  anything  comes 
along  to  make  her  proud,  she  tells  her  father.  She  talks 
to  Theodora  by  the  hour  about  the  things  she  saw  when 
she  was  abroad — and  she  never  tells  me  one  thing.  I'm 
simply  shut  out  on  every  side,  and  it's  killing  me !"  She 
burst  into  hysterical  weeping. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  mother.  I  hadn't  realized.  Perhaps 
if  you  weren't  always  so  short  and  critical  with  her — ' 


The  Statue  and  the  Bust  241 

"Oh,  I'm  to  go  down  on  my  knees  to  her?  Indeed  I 
won't.  As  long  as  she  is  under  eighteen,  she  takes  her 
orders  from  me.  She'll  go  to  the  dogs,  with  all  this  flat- 
tery and  praise — " 

"The  surest  way  to  ruin  Eileen  is  to  take  that  attitude 
towards  her." 

"Well,  she  is  my  child,  and  I  have  a  right  to  do  with 
her  as  I  please." 

"No — you — have — not!"  Judith's  eyes  flashed  and 
her  voice  was  hoarse  with  indignation.  "Rather  than 
permit  you  to  wreck  her  chance  for  happiness,  I'll  send 
her  to  Laura  Ramsay — or  even  to  my  mother." 

II 

Lavinia  fled  weeping  through  the  door.  She  would 
tell  Larimorc  how  his  wife  had  insulted  her.  Unfortu- 
nately he  was  in  New  York.  At  least  she  could  write  to 
him  .  .  .  and  the  letter  had  distinct  advantages.  She 
would  be  spared  interruption.  Larimore  always  broke 
the  point  of  her  lance  before  she  had  time  to  drive  it 
home.  She  wrote.  She  read  the  long  letter  through 
twice — and  tore  it  into  shreds.  A  second  letter  followed 
the  first  one.  Then  it  was  time  to  go  down  to  luncheon. 

When  the  noonday  meal  was  over,  and  David  and 
Theo  had  gone,  she  went  again  to  Vine  Cottage.  Judith 
was  in  the  library,  an  open  volume  of  Browning  on  the 
table  before  her.  Her  face  was  pale  and  her  eyes 
showed  flecks  of  hazel. 

"We  had  a  misunderstanding  this  morning,  my  dear, 
and  I  don't  want  to  leave  things  that  way."  The  words 
came  with  a  brave  show  of  confidence,  but  Lavinia 
Trench  looked  like  a  corpse,  an  automaton  that  was  made 
to  speak  by  a  force  other  than  its  own.  "I  am  going  to 
ask  you  to  forgive  me,  and  help  me  as  you  did  Eileen." 


242  Indian  Summer 

"Oh,  mother!"     The  cry  was  from  her  heart. 

"I  knew  you  would  be  surprised.  I  never  apologized 
to  any  one  in  my  life.  I've  been  fighting  it  for  a  week. 
When  I  said  those  things,  this  morning,  it  was  to  keep 
from  saying  what — what  I'm  going  to  say  now.  Since 
Eileen  came  home,  I've  been  going  over  my  life.  David 
said  she  had  missed  the  path,  and  you  showed  her  the 
right  way.  I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  in  the  world. 
If  you  could  do  that  for  Eileen,  you  could  do  it  for  me." 

It  was  a  challenge,  flung  like  a  pelting  of  hail  stones. 
Judith  looked  at  her  with  troubled  gaze.  How  could 
she  deal  with  a  mentality  so  different  from  her  own? 
Eileen  was  young,  and  Eileen  loved  her.  That  her 
mother-in-law  cordially  detested  her,  she  could  not  doubt. 

"You  know  I  would  gladly.  .  .  ." 

"It's  all  perfectly  simple — excepting  two  points.  By 
all  the  rules  of  right  and  wrong,  Eileen  ought  to  be  a 
miserable  girl,  broken  in  soul  and  body — and  not  re- 
spected by  good  people.  It  doesn't  make  a  particle  of 
difference  that  she  hid  her  wickedness.  God  knows  what 
she  did,  and  it  is  God  that  punishes  sin.  Instead  of  that, 
she  comes  back  here  better  in  every  way  than  she  was  be- 
fore. She's  prettier  now  than  Sylvia.  She  used  to  be 
cross  and  hateful  most  of  the  time.  Now  she  laughs 
and  sings  and  whistles  till  I  wish  she  would  pout  for  a 
change.  She  sits  up  and  discusses  the  most  serious  topics 
with  grown  men  and  women — and  you  know  how  she 
used  to  rattle  slang,  and  sneer  at  people  who  were  se- 
rious." 

"Her  experience  developed  her  marvellously.  It 
might  have  wrecked  her,  just  as  a  powerful  dose  of  medi- 
cine might  destroy  your  body,  if  administered  in  the 
wrong  way.  It  was  fearful  medicine,  but  it  was  what 
her  sick  mind  needed." 


The  Statue  and  the  Bust  243 

"That  takes  care  of  one  of  the  points,"  Lavinia  cried, 
her  black  eyes  dilating.  "You  call  it  medicine.  I  saw 
it  only  as  the  consequences  of  sin." 

"The  name  doesn't  matter." 

"Yes,  the  name  does  matter.  I  want  to  get  this  thing 
down  in  black  and  white.  All  my  life  I  have  been  dis- 
contented. It's  just  one  crushing  disappointment  after 
another.  Eileen  was  the  same  way.  I  never  used  to 
think  she  was  like  me — but  in  some  respects  she  is.  I 
had  a  chance  to  marry  the  son  of  the  richest  man  in  town. 
But  I  have  always  been  virtuous  and  upright — " 

"Mother,  perhaps  if  you — " 

"Don't  interrupt  me.  I  have  to  say  this  all  at  once, 
while  it's  connected.  You  call  Eileen's  discontentment 
and  rebellious  nature  a  kind  of  disease.  Well  then,  I 
had  the  same  disease,  and  she  got  it  from  me.  After  my 
grandmother  died,  there  wasn't  one  in  the  family  that 
understood  me.  And  the  man  I  was  engaged  to — 
She  brought  her  teeth  together,  as  if  she  were  biting 
off  and  forcing  back  the  words  that  strove  to  assert  them- 
selves in  spite  of  her.  "I  threw  him  over,  when  I  found 
out  that  he  was  an  unprincipled  scoundrel,  like  Hal 
Marksley.  If  I  had  gone  on,  as  she  did — but  I  never 
could  have  done  such  a  thing." 

"Probably  not.  You  were  brought  up  in  a  provincial 
New  York  town.  You  were  hedged  about  by  customs 
and  convictions  that  don't  obtain  in  Springdale,  or  among 
Eileen's  associates.  You  must  make  allowance  for 
that." 

Lavinia  sidestepped  the  interruption.  "Eileen  was 
sick — and  God  picked  out  a  remedy  that  I  thought  God, 
in  His  purity,  wouldn't  know  anything  about.  I  was 
taught  that  it  was  the  devil  that — well,  I've  been  figuring 
that  she  had  to  come  to  grief,  because  she  went  over  to 


244  Indian  Summer 

Satan.  That's  the  only  way  I  could  square  things  with 
my  religious  training.  I  don't  believe,  now,  that  she  will 
ever  be  punished.  That  shows  that  it  was  God  and  not 
the  devil  that  did  it.  I'm  willing  to  admit  that  I  was  mis- 
taken, if  you'll  show  me  how  to  find  happiness." 

"It  isn't  a  recipe,  like  the  ingredients  for  a  cake.     And 
you  must  remember  that  I  didn't  prescribe  the  remedy,  in 
Eileen's  case.     I  only  nursed  her,  after  she  had  taken  it. 
I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  why  you  are  unhappy." 
"And  I  would  have  to  tell  you  the  whole  story?" 
"I  wouldn't  pry  into  your  heart.     I  would  do  anything 
in  my  power  to  give  you  peace.     You  are  Lary's  mother. 
I  have  never  overlooked  my  obligation  to  you." 

Ill 

Lavinia  took  from  the  words  an  implication  more  hu- 
miliating than  her  daughter-in-law  had  intended.  But 
this  was  no  time  for  recrimination.  She  must  hold  on  to 
herself.  The  canker  in  her  heart  had  eaten  so  deep 
that  help  must  come,  or  she  would  go  mad.  Mechan- 
ically she  reached  for  the  volume  on  the  table.  Her 
mind  went  back  to  those  first  years  in  Springdale,  when 
she  had  conned  Browning  in  an  effort  to  shine  in  Mrs. 
Henderson's  club.  Was  it  indeed  for  this  that  she  had 
memorized  poems,  delved  in  abstruse  literary  criticism— 
that  she  might  win  Mrs.  Henderson's  approbation? 
One  half  of  her  knew  that  it  was  not,  while  the  other 
half  as  stoutly  denied  an  ulterior  motive  for  this,  or  for 
any  other  deliberate  act  of  her  life. 

While  she  was  giving  the  attic  its  annual  overhauling, 
she  had  come  upon  the  yellow  files  of  the  Bromfield  Sen- 
tinel, the  edges  broken  like  pie  crust.  She  had  read 
again  the  spirited  account  of  the  meeting  at  which  Mrs. 
David  Trench  was  elected  secretary  of  the  most  intellect- 


The  Statue  and  the  Bust          245 

ual  club  in  Springdale.  Who  was  there  in  her  girlhood 
home  for  whom  this  triumph  would  provide  a  thrill  of 
gratification  or  a  sting  of  envy?  Ellen  knew  all  about 
it.  Isabel  had  long  since  removed  to  California.  Her 
mother  was  dead.  The  girls  of  her  social  circle?  The 
Browning  craze  had  not  invaded  Bromfield,  and  there 
was  not  one  among  her  old  friends  for  whose  opinion  she 
cared  a  straw. 

IV 

She  came  back  to  herself  with  a  start.  "The  Statue 
and  the  Bust,"  she  muttered.  "We  did  that  one,  the 
winter  before  Isabel  was  born.  I  had  to  drop  out — and 
Mrs.  Henderson  sent  me  her  notes.  It  was  a  shockingly 
immoral  thing,  for  the  wife  of  a  college  president — a 
Presbyterian  minister,  at  that.  I  never  had  quite  the 
same  opinion  of  her,  after  I  read  those  notes.  She  said 
the  lady  who  sat  at  the  window  and  watched  for  the  duke 
to  ride  by — would  have  been  less  wicked  if  she  had  ac- 
tually run  away  with  him.  She  said  it  was  just  as  bad  to 
want  to  commit  sin  as  to  actually  commit  it — " 

"Yes,  if  they  restrained  themselves  only  because  of 
fear  of  the  consequences.  There  is  no  virtue  in  that  kind 
of  repression." 

To  Lavinia  Trench  everything  was  personal.  She 
turned  the  thought  over  in  her  mind  .  .  .  "afraid  of  the 
consequences"  .  .  .  "no  virtue  in  that  kind  of  re- 
pression." Her  whole  life  had  been  one  of  repression. 
Mrs.  Henderson  had  stressed  the  lines: 

"And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Is  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say." 

"That  isn't  my  idea  of  sin.     At  least  it  wasn't,  un- 


246  Indian  Summer 

til.  .  .  ."  She  trailed  off  into  incoherence,  thumbing  the 
pages  nervously.  "Judith,  do  you  think  a  woman — a 
married  woman — could  go  on  caring  for  some  other 
man — "  She  struggled  with  the  obstruction  in  her 
throat.  "I  mean  the  bride  of  Riccardi,  in  the  poem.  I 
can't  see  how  caring,  and  just  thinking  how  much  she 
would  like  to  be  with  him — was — wrong.  She  didn't 
commit  any  act  of  sin — didn't  break  the  seventh  com- 
mandment." 

"In  the  eyes  of  the  world  she  was  a  virtuous  woman. 
In  her  own  heart  she  was  an  unsatisfied  wanton.  She 
added  hypocrisy  to  the  sin  of  desire,  and  on  that  hypoc- 
risy she  wrecked  her  only  chance  for  happiness." 


Once  before,  Judith  had  attempted  to  implant  an  ab- 
stract idea  in  Mrs.  Trench's  mind.  Now  she  was  be- 
trayed into  a  discussion  of  moral  responsibility,  with  no 
intent  other  than  that  of  bridging  over  a  trying  period  of 
her  none  too  comfortable  relations  with  her  mother-in- 
law.  That  Lavinia  would  carry  away  even  a  germ  of  an 
idea,  she  did  not  suspect.  She  had  merely  reiterated 
what  Mrs.  Henderson  had  said,  twenty  years  ago.  As 
yet  she  had  not  fully  perceived,  in  that  warped  mind,  one 
dominating  characteristic:  the  ability  to  find  justification 
for  anything  that  seemed  desirable.  True,  Eileen  had 
said — but  Eileen  was  not  always  fair  in  her  old-time 
strictures  on  her  mother. 

Judith  looked  at  the  abject  figure,  the  pallid  face  and 
the  hard  mouth  .  .  .  and  pity  overmastered  her.  She 
wanted  to  say  something  comforting.  The  door  was 
shut,  the  discussion  ended.  Lavinia  sat  there,  ponder- 
ing. It  was  all  so  different  from  the  groundwork  of  her 
religious  training.  Probably  Browning  and  Judith  and 


The  Statue  and  the  Bust  247 

Mrs.  Henderson  were  wrong.  To  her  literal  mind,  their 
idea  could  not  accord  with  the  stern  dictum:  "The  wages 
of  sin  is  death."  Still,  their  theory  would  serve  to  ex- 
plain Eileen.  In  her  pondering,  she  went  the  length  of 
formulating  the  postulate:  "Eileen  sinned  and  became 
happy.  Her  sin  was  the  source  of  her  regeneration." 

There  must  be  something  to  it.  She,  Vine  Larimore, 
had  been  virtuous — and  disaster  had  overtaken  her. 
Lettie  Fournier  had  sinned  .  .  .  and  for  all  the  years  of 
her  subsequent  life  she  had  worn  the  name  of  Calvin 
Stone.  That  this  distinction  brought  her  rival  scant 
happiness,  was  beside  the  point.  The  transgression  of 
the  moral  law  was  the  barrier  which  both  Lettie  and 
Eileen  had  passed  to  the  kind  of  satisfaction  that  had 
been  denied  her.  Judith  had  not  told  her  of  the  days 
and  nights  of  self-purging.  She  saw  only  externals,  and 
these  were  all  in  favour  of  the  Browning  theory.  After 
a  long  interval  she  said: 

"Would  you  mind  telling  her — Eileen — that  I  want 
her  to  come  to  me?  You  know  better  how  to  get  hold 
of  her.  She  thinks  I  don't  love  her — that  I'm  partial  to 
Sylvia.  I  do  love  her  .  .  .  and  I  want  her  at  home  with 
me,  where  I  can  study  her.  It  will  be  bitter  enough 
dose  for  me  to  take  my  lesson  from  her.  But  I  am  will- 
ing to  do  it,  if  she  can  show  me  the  way  to  happiness." 
She  looked  incredibly  old  and  tired  and  hopeless.  "And 
would  you  mind  lending  me  your  copy  of  Browning?  I 
want  to  read  'The  Statue  and  the  Bust'  through.  Sylvia 
took  mine  with  her  when  she  moved  to  Detroit.  I  didn't 
think  I  would  ever  look  at  it  again." 


XXXIV    Lavinia's  Credo 


"Sister  Judy,"  Jack  Denslow  called,  "there's  a  bully 
fire  down  the  avenue.  Come  and  watch  the  motor  en- 
gine go  by.  Good-bye,  old  horse,  your  day  is  done." 

Judith  Trench  crossed  to  the  window  and  stood  beside 
her  young  brother;  but  her  mind  was  not  on  the  marvel 
of  metal  and  speed  that  had  gone  from  sight  almost  be- 
fore its  clanging  bell-note  reached  her  ears.  Another 
fifth  of  March.  A  year  ago  .  .  .  Eileen  .  .  .  there,  in 
that  very  room.  And  now  .  .  .  Did  Eileen  remember? 
Did  any  of  the  family  remember?  She  and  Lary  had 
spent  the  winter  in  New  York,  going  to  Springdale  only 
when  business  demanded,  and  each  brief  visit  brought  its 
fresh  surprise. 

With  the  Marksley  contract  off  his  hands,  David  im- 
proved in  health  so  rapidly  that  he  had  long  since  ceased 
to  be  a  source  of  anxiety.  Eileen  and  her  mother  had 
effected  an  entente  cordiale  which  apparently  worked 
well  for  both.  The  woman  who  had  wrought  the 
bridge,  however  frail  and  inadequate,  over  which  mother 
and  daughter  might  pass  to  an  understanding  hitherto 
unknown  in  their  association,  reflected  with  grave  mis- 
givings that  the  bridge  was  not  the  end  of  the  journey. 

Once  she  was  on  the  point  of  telling  Lary  about  his 
mother,  their  sharp  dispute  and  the  subsequent  ethical 
discussion.  The  change  in  Lavinia,  since  that  day.  was 
so  marked  that  the  neighbours  made  comment.  The  wo- 
man who  had  spent  her  mature  years  surging  from  offi- 

248 


Lavinia's  Credo  249 

cious  sweetness  to  the  most  violent  outbursts  of  temper, 
went  about  in  a  state  of  tranquil  meditation  that  could 
not  be  accounted  for  by  anything  external  to  herself. 
There  was  none  of  the  rapturous  devotion  to  David  that 
had  characterized  her  return  from  Bromfield;  but  at 
least  she  was  not  unkind.  Of  all  those  who  watched  her, 
only  Judith  could  surmise  what  was  going  on  in  her  mind. 
Might  it  be  that  Lavinia  had  achieved  her  Indian  Sum- 
mer without  the  killing  frost?  Had  there,  perhaps,  been 
a  revision  of  her  credo  from  the  simple  tenets  of  the  cate- 
chism to  the  complex  philosophy  of  Robert  Browning? 
Judith  shivered  as  she  faced  the  thought  and  its  possible 
consequences. 

She  had  told  the  troubled  woman  that  sin  consisted,  not 
in  action,  but  in  desire.  Could  Lavinia,  literal-minded 
and  creed-ridden,  handle  a  concept  so  foreign  to  her  con- 
victions? Had  Lary's  mother  torn  away  the  solid 
foundation  of  her  existence,  and  was  she  building  again 
— a  substructure  that  would  sustain  her  through  the  bar- 
ren years  to  come?  Could  this  be  done,  at  Lavinia's  age 
and  with  the  rigid  material  of  Lavinia's  soul?  Would 
the  house  of  her  being  come  crashing  down,  when  she 
sought  to  shift  from  what  she  had  been  to  what  she  hoped 
to  be? 

Judith  was  glad  when  Lary  told  her,  that  evening,  that 
he  must  return  to  Springdale.  Her  mother-in-law  might 
seek  counsel  of  her,  in  the  privacy  of  the  library  where 
their  two  natures  had  clashed  again  and  yet  again.  All 
the  tedious  journey  to  the  West,  she  turned  over  in  her 
mind  a  working  corollary  to  that  elusive  proposition,  the 
nature  of  sin.  How  tenuous,  how  like  shifting  sand,  the 
thought-mass  on  which  our  concrete  actions  must  rest! 
Had  she  any  assurance  that  her  conception  of  duty,  of 
principle,  of  right-thinking,  was  better  for  humanity  than 
the  set  of  fatuous  concepts  she  had  sought  to  displace? 


250  Indian  Summer 

II 

If  Lavinia  had  need  of  help,  she  gave  no  token.  She 
was  at  the  station  to  meet  them,  and  she  was  bursting 
with  a  secret.  There  had  been  no  mention  of  it  in  her 
letters,  because  one  could  not  be  sure  about  such  things— 
and  telling  them  in  advance  was  likely  to  spoil  the  charm. 
Then  she  sealed  her  lips  until  they  were  well  within  the 
discreet  walls  of  Vine  Cottage. 

"Of  course  I  may  be  mistaken;  but  unless  I  miss  my 
guess,  there's  going  to  be  a  wedding  before  you  go  back 
to  New  York." 

"A  wedding?     Some  one  I  have  met?" 

"There!  I  was  sure  you  didn't  suspect.  Though 
how  you  could  have  helped  it — the  way  Syd  acted,  when 
you  were  here  the  end  of  January — " 

"Dear  old  Syd!  I  hope  he  has  fallen  in  love  wisely. 
It  would  go  hard  with  him  if  he  should  blunder." 

"I'm  sure  it  will  be  all  right.  The  difference  in  age 
doesn't  matter — and  you  know  he  will  make  her  a  noble 
husband.  If  only  she  doesn't  get  some  foolish  notion  of 
telling  him  all  that  wretched  affair.  I  tried  to  caution 
her,  in  a  roundabout  way;  but  you  know  how  stubborn 
Eileen  is." 

"Eileen!"  Judith  dropped  a  handful  of  toilet  articles 
on  the  dressing  table  and  sat  down,  weakly. 

"Mercy,  Judith !"  The  woman's  tone  carried  positive 
contempt  for  such  obtuseness.  "He  was  with  her  every 
evening  while  you  and  Larimore  were  here,  the  last  time. 
Of  course  they  were  reading  Latin  together,  or  working 
with  the  violin.  But  I  knew  what  it  would  lead  to. 
And  it  was  my  making  her  come  home,  after  she'd  been 
at  their  house  three  evenings  a  week,  that  did  it.  He 
missed  her  so  dreadfully  that  he  got  over  thinking  about 


Lavinia's  Credo  251 

her  as  a  little  girl.  Goodness  knows,  she's  more  mature 
than  Sylvia  was  at  twenty — and  Syd  will  always  be  a 
boy."  ' 

"Has  she  told  you?" 

"No,  but  I  wouldn't  look  for  her  to  do  that.  She's 
been  very  nice  to  me.  Oh,  Judith,  I  hope  she  will  tell 
you  it's  true." 

"I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  you  to  have 
her  happily  married." 

"Yes — but  I  wasn't  thinking  so  much  about  that  part  of 
it.  I  had  my  own  case  in  mind.  It  would  be  the  last 
straw  of  evidence — that  all  my  old  ideas  were  wrong. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  want  to  be  sure  I  was  in 
the  wrong." 

Her  eyes  glittered  and  her  slender  form  seemed  to  di- 
late. She  was  not  thinking  of  her  cruelty  to  Eileen  and 
her  subsequent  reluctance  to  admit  that  in  her  daughter's 
case  good  might  grow  out  of  evil.  Eileen  was  become, 
in  her  mother's  eyes,  a  manikin,  to  be  posed  this  way  and 
that  for  the  studying  of  effects — an  architect's  drawing, 
to  serve  as  a  pattern  for  the  rebuilding  of  her  mother's 
life. 

Ill 

Later  in  the  day  the  girl  came,  her  face  wearing  an  ex- 
pression of  deadly  earnest.  Already  Mrs.  Trench's 
hope  was  transformed  into  certainty.  Judith  led  the 
way  to  the  little  boudoir  Lary  had  fitted  for  her  on  the 
second  floor. 

"Now,  dear,  what  is  it?"  she  asked  when  the  door  was 
shut. 

"The  most  important  trouble  I  ever  had.  I  ought  to 
have  written  you — when  Syd  first  asked  me.  But  I  did 
so  want  to  tell  papa  first  .  .  .  before  even  you.  I  owe 


252  Indian  Summer 

him  that,  for  all  the  pain  I  caused  him.  Syd  wants  to  be 
married  on  my  eighteenth  birthday,  and  that's  less  than 
three  weeks  off." 

"And  you  love  him,  Eileen?" 

"As  I  never  thought  it  would  be  possible  to  love.  We 
just  belong  together — like  you  and  Lary,  only,  oh,  so  dif- 
ferent. I  can  see  it  in  a  hundred  ways.  When  I  don't 
get  what  he's  trying  to  tell  me — abstract  ideas,  you  know 
— he  goes  up  to  the  landing  in  the  reception  hall  and  sits 
down  at  his  mother's  pipe  organ  and  puts  the  thought 
into  something  that  I  can  get  hold  of.  When  a  man  can 
talk  to  you  that  way — and  music  is  the  only  language  you 
really  do  understand — there  is  only  one  answer.  If  I'm 
in  an  ugly  mood,  he  doesn't  scold  or  upbraid  me.  He 
works  out  a  theme  in  A-minor.  I  try  to  run  away  from 
it,  and  I  can't.  I've  made  bold  to  go  past  him,  up  to 
my  room,  and  my  feet  wouldn't  carry  me  up  the  stairs." 

"And  then,  Eileen?" 

"I  cry  it  out  on  his  shoulder.  After  I  have  washed  the 
meanness  out,  we  can  talk  sense.  I  don't  mind  in  the 
least — that  he's  always  right." 

"And  there's  one  point  on  which  you  can't  come  to  an 
agreement?" 

"Yes,  only  one.  Judith,  how  far  is  it  necessary  to  go 
with  confession  of  something  that  you  know  will  lose  you 
the  respect  and  affection  of — " 

"Oh,  Eileen,  my  poor  little  sister!" 

"Don't  let  it  hurt  you,"  the  girl  cried,  her  eyes  filling. 
"If  life  isn't  so  perfect,  I  can  stand  it.  There  is  one 
thing  more  important  than  the  man  you  love — and  that  is 
your  conviction  of  what  is  square  and  honest.  Syd  can 
tell  me  what  to  do  in  other  matters — but  this  is  in  your 
line,  not  his." 

"Dearest,  it  seems  to  me  that  there  can  be  no  sure  foot- 


Lavinia's  Credo  253 

hold  in  marriage  if  a  wife  conceals  from  her  husband  an 
experience  as  important  as  that.  I  know  what  a  humil- 
iation it  is  to  open  such  a  secret  chamber.  I  did  it, 
Eileen." 

"Judith,  you  don't  think  I—  '  She  stared,  aghast. 
"You  couldn't  think  me  capable  of  taking  Sydney  Schu- 
bert's love — a  man  as  clean  and  honourable  as  he  is — 
without  telling  him  why  I  went  to  New  York?" 

"Then  he  knows?" 

"He  knew  ...  all  along."  Her  fair  cheeks  flamed. 
"When  he  told  me  he  cared,  I  said  there  was  a  reason 
why  I  couldn't  ever  marry  any  decent  man.  Judith,  he 
put  his  two  arms  around  me  and  looked  me  square  in  the 
eyes,  and  said:  'You  were  a  poor  little  wilful  child,  and 
you  didn't  know  that  fire  would  burn.  Any  woman,  my 
dear,  is  good  enough  for  any  man — if  she  is  honest.' 
The  only  thing  he  wanted  to  know  was  .  .  .  what  we 
had  done  with  it.  He  said  that  would  make  a  difference. 
He  was  relieved  when  I  told  him.  And  he  thinks  you 
were  made  in  heaven — to  have  saved  me — for  him." 

"But  if  you  have  told  him,  and  he  is  satisfied — what 
is  the  obstacle?" 

"It  is  his  father.  I  can't  marry  Syd  and  go  there  to 
live,  letting  Papa  Schubert  believe  I  am  the  pure  white 
flower  he  thinks  me.  Syd  says  he  won't  have  his  father's 
ideal  of  me  shattered — because  his  father  wouldn't  look 
at  it  the  way  he  does.  He  might  forgive  me :  but  I'd  al- 
ways be  tarnished,  to  him." 

"Do  you  remember,  Eileen,  the  day  you  told  the  truth 
to  Laura  Ramsay?  You  began  by  saying  you  were  under 
no  moral  obligation  to  her  mother.  I  don't  know  how 
we  can  draw  those  lines  of  distinction;  but  I  feel  them 
with  absolute  certainty.  You  are  under  no  need  to  con- 
fess your  secret  to  Sylvia  or  Theodora — and  for  widely 


254  Indian  Summer 

different  reasons.  Indeed  we  must  go  to  any  length  to 
prevent  Theo  ever  learning  the  truth.  With  Dr.  Schu- 
bert it  is  the  same.  It  would  only  give  him  useless  pain." 

"That's  what  Syd  said.  He  led  me  over  to  that  little 
peachblow  vase — the  one  that  was  bequeathed  to  his 
father  by  one  of  his  grateful  patients.  He  told  me  the 
satin  glaze  and  the  peachbloom  tints  were  the  result  of 
the  heat  in  the  kiln,  that  almost  destroyed  the  body  of 
the  vase.  He  asked  me  if  I  would  be  willing  to  break 
that  little  amphora,  that  his  father  loves,  just  to  prove  to 
him  that  it  isn't  as  perfect  on  the  inside  as  it  looks  to  him. 
He  might  patch  the  fragments  together,  but  he  would 
always  be  conscious  of  the  cracks."  , 

"Syd  is  right.  It  would  be  brutality — sheer  vandal- 
ism." 

"You  precious  treasure.  He  told  me  that  was  what 
you  would  say.  Now  I  am  going  to  the  office  to  tell  my 
darling  daddy  that  he  is  to  have  a  real  son-in-law." 

"When  are  you  going  to  tell  your  mother,  dear?" 

"That's  Syd's  job.  He  is  going  to  make  formal  ap- 
plication for  my  hand.  He  can  get  off  a  thing  like  that, 
without  batting  an  eye,  when  he's  just  dying  to  get  out 
and  yell.  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  mamma'll  take  it  in 
dead  earnest.  I  suppose  Sylvia  will  have  sarcastic  things 
to  say.  I  don't  care.  Syd  never  was  really  in  love  with 
her — after  he  was  old  enough  to  cut  his  eye  teeth." 

IV 

Mrs.  Penrose  did  not  come  home  for  the  wedding. 
Just  what  she  wrote  her  mother,  the  other  members  of 
the  family  never  knew.  Her  letter  came  with  another, 
which  bore  the  Bromfield  postmark,  and  the  two  were  on 
Lavinia's  plate  when  she  came  down  to  breakfast. 
David  and  the  girls  were  already  at  the  table,  and  Theo 


Lavinia's  Credo  255 

had  inspected  the  mail.  Drusilla  had  been  instructed  not 
to  take  letters  from  the  box,  and  the  sight  of  two  thick  en- 
velopes threw  Lavinia  into  a  nervous  chill.  She  picked 
them  up  and  carried  them  to  the  sun  room,  saying  she 
had  a  headache  and  would  eat  nothing. 

After  a  little,  David  followed  her,  distressed.  "Is 
there  anything  wrong  in  Bromfield — at  your  brother's 
house,  or  with  my  people?" 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  in  Bromfield.  Sylvia  is 
a  cat!" 


XXXV   The  Credo  at  Work 


When  school  closed  in  June,  Judith  took  Theodora 
for  the  long  promised  visit  to  New  York.  Sydney  and 
Eileen  were  off  for  a  belated  honeymoon  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Colorado,  and  Lavinia  Trench  reflected  that  the 
coveted  privacy  had  come  at  the  crucial  moment.  She 
would  be  alone  to  think  things  out.  David  was  away 
from  home  much  of  the  time,  and  when  he  was  in  the 
house  his  wife  was  only  mechanically  conscious  of  his 
presence.  She  viewed  the  neighbours  as  through  a  mist. 
Orders  were  given  to  Drusilla,  with  the  monotonous  in- 
tonation of  a  talking  machine.  That  the  orders  were 
rational  was  evidence  of  the  complete  detachment  that 
could  enable  her  mind  to  function  without  conscious  ef- 
fort. It  was  as  if  she  had  wound  up  the  machinery  of 
her  being  and  had  withdrawn,  leaving  it  to  the  old  famil- 
iar routine. 

After  three  weeks,  her  cloistered  retreat  was  invaded 
by  the  most  disturbing  member1  of  her  family.  The 
passionate  devotion  that  had  centered  in  her  youngest- 
born — to  her  purblind  vision  the  most  perfect  copy  of 
herself — had  undergone  insidious  change,  as  she  centered 
her  interest  in  Eileen.  Theodora  was  irritating  beyond 
endurance.  With  the  child  in  the  house,  there  could  be 
no  peace.  Reluctantly,  almost  bitterly,  she  came  back 
to  the  dull  reality  of  life.  David  was  still  in  Jackson- 
ville from  Monday  to  Saturday.  After  a  day  or  two, 

256 


The  Credo  at  Work  257 

she  consented  to  let  Theo  stay  with  Dr.  Schubert  and 
Nanny.  To  her  daughter-in-law  she  confessed  that  it 
was  not  because  the  old  doctor  was  so  lonely,  but  that  she 
could  not  endure  the  child's  incessant  chatter.  The 
dropping  of  a  fork  behind  her  chair  would  send  her  into 
a  paroxysm  of  shaking — Lavinia,  who  had  always 
laughed  at  nervous  women. 

II 

One  morning  Judith  stood  with  her  husband  at  an 
upper  window,  watching  the  agitated  woman  as  she 
paced  up  and  down  before  the  house.  The  postman  was 
late. 

"She  watched  for  him  just  that  way  yesterday,  Lary. 
And  when  he  failed  to  bring  what  she  was  expecting,  her 
disappointment  was  pitiful." 

"My  mother  is  going  through  some  deep  transition.  I 
wish  I  could  help  her;  but  she  has  always  shut  me  out. 
She  is  a  hundred  times  more  frank  and  confidential  with 
you  than  she  has  ever  been  with  me  or  with  her  own 
daughters.  Do  you  think,  dear,  you  could  induce  her  to 
tell  you  what  is  troubling  her?" 

"I  have  tried.  She  talks  freely  about  the  emptiness 
and  misery  of  her  life.  She  is  gnawingly  unsatisfied;  but 
she  gives  no  clue.  Such  devotion  as  your  father's  ought 
to  have  won  her,  years  ago.  I  spoke  rather  plainly  to 
her  about  it.  I  knew  it  would  anger  her;  but  I  wanted 
to  shock  her  into  some  line  of  rational  thinking.  The 
mention  of  her  husband's  tenderness  only  infuriated  her. 
She  said  such  cruel  things  about  him.  And,  Lary,  he  is  as 
much  in  the  dark  as  we  are.  He  talked  to  me  about  it, 
Sunday  night.  Is  it  possible.  .  .  ." 

"What,  dear?" 

"I  wondered  if  there  might  be  something  in  her  life — 


258  Indian  Summer 

long  ago — a  scar  that  is  still  sensitive — some  shock  that 
left  a  buried  impression." 

"A  lover,  you  mean?  I  hardly  think  so.  She  has 
always  teased  or  brutally  insulted  my  father  with  the 
mention  of  an  old  sweetheart  of  hers.  It  seems,  they 
were  deadly  rivals,  and  papa  won  her  because  of  his  clean 
morals.  The  other  man  was  the  rakish  sort — and  in  a 
town  like  Bromfield — with  my  mother's  prejudices  and 
the  thing  that  in  her  case  passes  for  religious  convic- 
tion. .  .  ." 

Just  then  the  postman  rounded  the  corner.  There 
was  only  one  letter  for  the  Trench  household,  but  its 
effect  was  electrical.  Lavinia  took  it  from  his  hand  and 
ran  stumbling  into  the  house.  At  the  sill  she  dropped  to 
her  knees,  regained  her  footing  and  hurried  inside.  She 
had  not  opened  the  envelope,  hence  its  contents  could  not 
account  for  her  perturbed  state  of  mind.  It  came  to 
Judith  .  .  .  that  the  whole  future  hung  on  the  tenor  of 
a  reply. 

Ill 

At  noon  she  appeared  in  the  dining-room  of  Vine 
Cottage.  Her  cheeks  were  pasty,  ashen,  but  her  eyes 
burned  with  insane  luster.  She  must  send  an  important 
letter  to  Sylvia,  and  it  was  too  late —  She  floundered, 
catching  a  chair  for  support.  Would  Larimore  send 
the  office  boy  out  with  a  special  delivery  stamp? 

"I'll  take  your  letter  with  me,  and  post  it  at  the  of- 
fice," Lary  said,  annoyed  by  the  crafty  manner  that 
marked  his  mother's  too  frequent  subterfuges. 

"I  haven't  written  it  yet.  It  isn't  the  kind  I  could 
dash  off  in  a  minute.  Sylvia  wants  me  to  be  in  Detroit 
by  Friday  noon.  I'll  have  to  get  word — " 

"Papa  won't  be  home  until  Saturday  evening,"  her  son 


The  Credo  at  Work  259 

said  sharply.     "You  can't  go  off  without  consulting  him." 

The  word  "consulting"  was  unfortunate.  It  released 
a  flood  of  martyrdom.  Lavinia  thought  she  owed  a 
duty  to  her  daughter  that  must  outweigh  any  consider- 
ation or  demand  on  the  part  of  her  husband. 

"Let  me  see  my  sister's  letter.  If  there  is  anything 
serious,  I  can  telephone." 

"I  didn't  bring  it  with  me.  In  fact,  I  accidentally 
dropped  it  in  the  grate  and  it  was  burned  before  I  could 
get  it  out." 

"A  grate  fire  in  July?" 

"I  was  burning  some  scraps — and  it  got  mixed  with 
them." 

"You  are  not  going  away  until  papa  comes  home.  It 
isn't  fair  to  him — and  if  you  insist — I  shall  call  Sylvia 
by  long  distance." 

Judith  averted  her  eyes.  The  sight  of  her  mother- 
in-law's  baffled  fury  was  more  than  she  could  endure. 
In  the  end  the  woman  agreed  to  defer  her  trip  until  Sat- 
urday night.  She  would  write  Sylvia  that  she  could  not 
be  spared  from  home. 

IV 

Early  Friday  morning  she  came  with  another  request. 
She  had  a  letter  from  her  husband  which  she  handed  to 
Lary,  ostentatiously.  David  was  entirely  willing  that  she 
should  go  to  Detroit.  In  fact,  he  had  promised  Sylvia 
that  they  together  would  visit  her  as  soon  as  the  house- 
cleaning  and  redecorating  of  the  apartment  was  over,. 
He  would  have  earned  a  vacation  when  the  Jacksonville 
contract  was  finished. 

"Now,  Larimore,  if  you  will  look  after  the  ticket — 
and  the  sleeper  berth — I'll  only  take  a  suit  case,  and  your 
father  can  bring  what  I  need  in  his  trunk.  By  that  time, 


260  Indian  Summer 

I'll  know  about  the  weather,  and  what  kind  of  clothes  I 
need.  I  want  the  ticket  via  Chicago.  It's  so  much 
shorter  than  the  other  route." 

"Chicago?"  Something  feline,  insinuating,  in  her 
tone  arrested  him.  "There's  no  direct  route  from 
Springdale  to  Detroit  via  Chicago.  You  would  have  to 
go  to  Littlefield  and  wait  there  for  the  St.  Louis  train 
— and  in  Chicago  it  would  mean  going  from  one  station 
to  the  other.  The  last  time  you  tried  that,  you  got 
lost,  and  missed  your  connection." 

"But  I  must — that  is,  I'd  prefer  to  go  that  way.  It 
wouldn't  matter  if  I  did  miss  my  train.  Sylvia  wants  me 
to  do  some  shopping  for  her." 

"Shopping  on  Sunday,  mamma?" 

As  the  woman  hurried  from  her  son's  presence,  Judith 
heard  her  mutter:  "There's  more  than  one  way  to  kill 
a  rat." 


Saturday  was  consumed  with  the  endless  little  things 
that  went  to  the  preparation  for  a  journey.  At  noon 
Lavinia  sent  Button  out  to  post  a  letter  to  Sylvia.  It 
was  plastered  over  the  upper  third  with  a  combination 
of  pink  and  green  stamps.  Lavinia  Trench  abhorred 
that  sort  of  thing;  but  she  would  not  ask  Larimore  for  a 
proper  stamp  to  insure  Sunday  delivery  of  her  letter. 
She  shunned  him  with  an  animosity  that  was  not  to  be 
misinterpreted.  He  had  angered  her  profoundly.  She 
told  Judith  that  she  would  go  to  the  station  in  Hafferty's 
cab  and  wait  there  until  David  came  in.  In  such  a  case 
he  would  not  mind  sitting  with  her  until  her  train  arrived. 
She  had  evidently  asked  too  many  favours  of  her  son. 
She  had  always  supposed  that  sons  were  glad  to  serve 
rfieir  mothers. 


The  Credo  at  Work  261 

Judith  sought  to  analyse  the  woman's  torn  state  of 
mind.  Did  she  always  get  into  such  a  fever  when  she 
was  going  away  from  home?  Lavinia  had  travelled 
much,  in  spite  of  her  oft  repeated  assertion  that  she  never 
went  anywhere,  never  had  any  pleasure  .  .  .  nothing 
but  the  dull  drudgery  of  a  wife  and  mother.  Before  her 
visit  to  Bromfield  she  had  been  in  just  such  a  mental  state. 
But  was  it,  exactly,  this  condition  of  mind?  Two  years 
ago,  everything  that  Lavinia  did — every  subterfuge, 
every  veiled  speech  or  cruel  innuendo — was  carefully 
thought  out.  It  all  had  a  direct  bearing  on  the  main  ob- 
ject. She  must  go  to  Bromfield,  and  she  would  not  ad- 
mit to  her  family — nor  indeed  to  herself — that  she  had 
need  to  go.  From  infancy  she  had  been  devious,  ap- 
proaching her  goal  by  the  most  tortuous  path.  She  was 
this  way  in  her  housekeeping.  One  could  not  be  a 
martyr  if  things  were  easy.  The  simple,  natural  way 
was  hateful  to  her — the  refuge  of  lazy  wives. 

This  much  Judith  had  set  down,  in  her  effort  to  under- 
stand her  mother-in-law's  curiously  warped  psychology. 
But  now  there  was  a  new  phase.  The  episode  of  Sylvia's 
letter,  accidentally  burned  in  the  grate  on  a  steaming  July 
day,  sufficed  to  betray  a  significant  breaking-up  of  the 
tough  fibre  of  an  irrational  but  tremendously  efficient 
mind.  The  mycelium  of  decay — some  deadly  fungus — 
had  penetrated  the  heartwood  of  Lavinia  Trench's  be- 
ing. She  went  into  a  panic  at  the  slightest  turn  in  her 
plans.  She  no  longer  counted  upon  the  unforeseen  con- 
tingency, or  guarded  against  it.  That  that  crashing  let- 
ter— the  occasion  for  this  hurried  trip  to  Detroit — was 
not  from  Sylvia,  Judith  was  morally  certain.  From 
whom,  then?  She  laid  the  perplexity  wearily  aside. 
With  one  unknown  quantity,  she  might  have  solved  the 
equation.  Here  were  two  unknown  and  unknowable 


262  Indian  Summer 

quantities,  since  Lavinia — after  her  two  disastrous  blun- 
ders— refused  to  talk  except  in  monosyllables. 

VI 

When  the  suit  case  was  in  process  of  preparation, 
Judith  invaded  Mrs.  Trench's  bedroom.  She  brought 
a  dark  negligee  for  the  Pullman,  in  place  of  the  delicate 
one  that  Sylvia  had  ridiculed,  two  years  ago.  As  she  of- 
fered it,  her  mother-in-law  turned  furtively  to  conceal 
something  she  was  in  the  act  of  securing  in  the  bottom 
of  her  small  travelling  bag.  Her  fingers  caught  at  the 
edge  of  a  night-dress,  awkwardly,  and  the  thing  was  re- 
vealed .  .  .  the  borrowed  volume  of  Browning. 


XXXVI    Consummation 


A  brief,  unsatisfactory  letter  came  Monday  noon, 
while  David  was  having  luncheon  at  Vine  Cottage.  It 
was  written  on  Pullman  paper,  in  a  loose  scrawl.  The 
train  was  four  hours  late,  and  of  course  there  was  no  one 
at  the  station  to  meet  her.  But  then,  she  had  not  ex- 
pected to  be  met.  Everything  would  be  all  right,  she 
was  sure.  It  was  frightfully  hot  in  Detroit.  She  would 
not  write  again  until  Tuesday  evening,  since  she  and  Syl- 
via would  be  up  to  the  ears  in  housecleaning. 

"I  can't,  somehow,  feel  that  things  are  right,"  David 
said,  returning  the  envelope  to  his  pocket  and  drawing 
out  another.  "Vine  acted  so  strange  while  we  were 
waiting  in  the  station.  I  thought  I  ought  to  go  along  to 
take  care  of  her — but  this  work  in  the  office  is  so  pressing 
— and  I'm  just  compelled  to  go  to  Jacksonville  for  part 
of  the  week.  I  told  her,  if  she  needed  me.  .  .  ."  He 
halted,  his  eyes  receding.  "She  flared  out  at  me  so 
fiercely  that  I  didn't  say  another  word.  That's  where 
I  ought  to  have  been  firm.  But  I  never  could  understand 
your  mother,  Lary." 

"None  of  us  does,  papa.     What  is  the  other  letter?" 
"It's  from  Sylvia.    I  found  it  at  the  office."    Larimore 
read  aloud: 

"Dear  Papa: 

"I'm  writing  in  a  hurry,  so  that  you  can  do  me  a  favour. 
Mamma's  special  has  just  arrived,  saying  she  can't  reach  Detroit 
until  Tuesday  noon — that  you  and  Lary  have  upset  all  her  plans. 

263 


264  Indian  Summer 

Well,  now,  please,  please,  PLEASE  upset  them  some  more.  Not 
that  I  don't  want  her  to  visit  me;  but  it  is  terribly  inconvenient 
now.  The  place  is  torn  up  with  painters  and  paper-hangers.  The 
weather  is  a  fright — and  Oliver  cross  as  a  bear.  Mamma  says 
she  must  be  here  to  help  me.  But  you  know  how  I  hate  to  have 
her  around  when  I  have  anything  important  to  do.  If  you  can 
induce  her  to  wait  a  week — really,  I'm  afraid  Oliver  wton't  be  civil 
to  her,  in  his  present  mood — you'll  do  her  and  us  a  big  service. 

"Your  affectionate  Daughter, 
SYLVIA." 

II 

Four  days  of  agonized  suspense,  during  which — at 
Lary's  urgent  request — David  abstained  from  replying 
to  either  of  the  letters  .  .  .  and  Lavinia  Trench  came 
home.  She  walked  into  the  house,  a  tottering  old  wo- 
man. Theo  and  her  father  were  in  the  dining-room,  try- 
ing to  choke  down  Drusilla's  tempting  dinner,  and  they 
started  from  the  table  as  if  an  apparition  from  the  dead 
had  confronted  them.  She  was  dusty  and  disheveled. 
The  close  travelling  hat  hung  limp  over  one  eye,  and 
through  the  greenish-gray  of  her  cheeks  the  bones  were 
modelled  remorselessly. 

"What — what  has  happened  to  you,  Vine?  Have  you 
been  in  a  wreck?" 

"A  wreck?  Oh,  yes,  a  wreck.  Everything  is  a 
wreck." 

She  sank  into  a  chair  and  sat  staring  at  the  floor. 
After  a  moment  she  collected  herself  to  ask:  "Has  Syl- 
via written?"  And  then:  "What  has  Sylvia  written?" 

"Nothing — except  the  letter  she  sent  before  you  got 
there.  She  wanted  you  to  wait  until  she  was  through 
with  her  housecleaning — " 

"I  know  all  about  that!  David  Trench,  if  you  ever 
speak  to  that  unprincipled  girl,  I'll  .  .  .  ."  Lavinia 


Consummation  265 

glared,  her  heart  pounding  visibly.  "She  ...  I  might 
have  known  what  to  expect,  after  the  letter  she  wrote 
when  Syd  and  Eileen  were  married.  She's  worse  than 
Eileen,  a  hundred  times  worse.  She's  capable — of  lying 
— about  her  own  mother.  She'll  try  to  lie  out  of  this 
thing.  You  can't  depend  on  a  word  she  says.  And 
Oliver's  as  unprincipled  as  she  is." 

In  times  of  stress  it  had  always  been  a  source  of  relief 
to  Lavinia  to  talk — to  abuse  some  one.  More  often 
than  not,  David  was  the  victim.  Now  she  was  hardly 
conscious  of  his  presence.  Theodora  she  did  not  see  at 
all.  She  was  sunk  in  the  morass  of  her  own  misery,  a 
misery  so  devastating  that  her  worst  enemy  must  have 
pitied  her. 

"Was  Sylvia  unkind  to  you?" 

"Unkind?     I  like  the  way  you  pick  your  words !" 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Vine.  You  must  make  allowances  for 
the  hot  weather — and  Oliver's  uncertain  temper.  Sylvia 
had  enough  to  upset  her." 

"That's  no  excuse  for  treating  her  mother  in  such  a 
shameful  way." 

She  went  up  to  her  room  and  shut  herself  in.  From 
behind  a  curtain  she  watched  while  David  went  to  the 
cottage  to  consult  his  son.  There  was  no  train  arriving 
from  Detroit  at  that  hour  of  the  day.  It  later  developed 
that  Lavinia  had  left  the  train  at  Littlefield,  and  that  her 
travel-stained  appearance  was  the  result  of  a  rough  ride 
in  a  service  car.  David  had  often  come  home  that  way, 
when  he  had  contracts  in  Pana  and  Sullivan.  He  knew, 
too,  that  it  was  the  Chicago  train;  but  the  fact  was  with- 
out significance  for  him. 

When  the  woman  had  calmed  herself  somewhat,  she 
told  a  more  or  less  coherent  story.  She  had  foolishly 
tried  to  surprise  Sylvia — had  pictured  her  daughter's  de- 


266  Indian  Summer 

light,  when  she  should  walk  in,  unannounced,  on  the  heels 
of  the  letter  that  deferred  her  coming  until  Tuesday. 
She  went  to  the  apartment  in  a  cab  and  rang  the  bell. 
There  was  no  one  at  home.  She  returned  to  the  station 
and  wrote  the  letter  to  David — she  would  not  have  told 
him  for  the  world  that  she  was  greeted  by  locked  doors. 
"Why  didn't  you  go  right  to  the  janitor,  my  dear?" 
David  asked,  tenderly.  "You  know  Oliver  and  Sylvia 
often  go  out  on  the  lake,  Sundays,  when  it's  hot.  And 
— it  just  occurs  to  me — are  you  sure  you  went  to  the  right 
place?" 

Judith,  watching  the  unfoldment  of  the  story  from  a 
vantage  point  that  was  not  David's,  thought  the  woman 
clutched  eagerly  at  a  plank  she  had  hitherto  not  seen. 
She  gained  a  precious  interval  of  thought,  while  her  lips 
retorted: 

"I  should  think  I  ought  to  know  Sylvia's  address." 
"Yes,  but  those  great  apartment  houses  all  look  alike. 
You  might  not  even  have  been  on  the  right  street.     You 
know,  once  when  you  went  to  St.  Louis — " 

"Yes,  but  that  time  I  took  the  wrong  car  line.  It  was 
the  fault  of  the  policeman  who  directed  me.  I'd  think 
a  cabman  would  know  the  streets." 

"What  did  Sylvia  say — when  you  finally — 
"What  did  she  say?     She  didn't  say  anything.     She 
wouldn't  let  me  in.     I  tried  to  telephone  her  from  the 
hotel,  Monday  morning — and  I'm  morally  certain  it  was 
Oliver  who  answered  the  'phone.     When  I  said  it  was 
mother,  he  said  I  had  the  wrong  number,  and  hung  up. 
I  tried  again,  and  they  wouldn't  answer." 
"But  when  you  went  back  to  the  house — " 
"I  went  three  times — and  once  I  know  I  saw  Sylvia 
peeping  through  the  curtain  at  the  apartment  door.     She 
didn't  want  me  there,  and  she  wouldn't  let  me  in." 


Consummation  267 

"I'm  going  to  call  Sylvia  up  and  ask  her  what  she 
means  by — " 

Lavinia  leaped  across  the  room  and  fell  upon  her  hus- 
band, forcing  him  roughly  into  his  chair. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Haven't  I  been  hu- 
miliated enough  already?" 

Ill 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  clanging  of  bells,  on 
Sherman  avenue.  Judith  went  to  the  window,  to  report 
that  a  cloud  of  smoke  was  visible  against  the  western  sky. 
A  moment  later,  Button  called  from  the  lawn  that  the 
Marksley  house  was  burning.  Theodora  wanted  to  see 
the  fun.  He  would  drive  her  out,  if  her  father  and 
brother  were  willing.  They  were  not  willing ! 

Button's  disappointment  was  greater  than  Theo's,  al- 
beit she  would  have  revelled  in  the  sight  of  that  one  par- 
ticular fire.  Button  could  not  make  out  why  people  kept 
a  car,  if  they  were  too  stingy  to  use  it.  Nothing  ever 
happened  in  Springdale,  and  when  there  was  a  little  ex- 
citement, a  fellow  wasn't  allowed  to  enjoy  it. 

But  the  spectacle  would  hardly  have  been  worth  the 
exertion  of  cranking  the  car.  The  Monday  paper  gave 
a  graphic  account  of  the  blaze  that  started  in  the  store 
room  on  the  top  floor,  and  was  extinguished  before  it  had 
accomplished  more  than  partial  destruction  of  the  roof. 
The  damage  was  amply  covered  by  insurance.  It  was 
understood  that  Mr.  Bavid  Trench  would  investigate 
the  loss,  and  make  necessary  repairs,  at  the  instance  of 
the  insurance  company. 


XXXVII    In  the  "Personal' 
Column 


Early  Thursday  morning,  David  was  on  the  point  of 
going  out  to  the  Marksley  Addition  to  estimate  the  fire 
loss,  when  he  stopped  at  sight  of  Judith,  entering  her  own 
gate.  He  crossed  the  parched  grass  of  the  wide  lawn 
and  joined  her.  Once  before  he  had  hinted  that  his 
wife's  mind  might  be  failing — that  the  shock  of  Eileen's 
tragedy  and  the  consequent  relief  of  her  propitious  mar- 
riage might  have  unsettled  her  mother's  reason.  He 
had  talked  to  Dr.  Schubert  about  it,  but  had  elicited  no 
sympathy  for  his  theory.  The  physician  did  not  believe 
for  a  moment  that  Sylvia — in  spite  of  the  evidential  let- 
ter to  her  father — had  refused  to  open  the  door  or  to 
answer  the  telephone.  Sylvia  was  entirely  absorbed  in 
herself,  but  she  was  not  a  fool.  He  was  rather  taken 
with  the  belief  that  Lavinia  had  been  playing  some  sort 
of  prank  on  her  family.  A  born  play-actor,  she  grew 
weary  of  the  burden  of  actuality,  and  sought  relief — ex- 
citement— in  a  world  of  make-believe.  This  time  she 
had  miscalculated,  and  found  things  hard  to  explain. 

"He  said  one  thing  that  went  against  the  grain,  Judith, 
even  from  Dr.  Schubert.  He  said  that  when  we  make  a 
lifelong  practice  of  petty  deception,  we  don't  gain  the 
facility  we  gain  by  any  other  constant  exercise;  but  in- 
stead, we  grow  reckless,  until  we  are  unable  to  know 
truth  from  falsehood.  Then  we  overreach  ourselves. 
I  accept  the  fact — but  I  don't  like  to  think  that  Vine 
would  deliberately — lie  to  me.  She  doesn't  always  see 

268 


In  the  "Personal"  Column         269 

things  in  their  true  relations.  But  that  she  would  make 
up  a  lie  ...  I  can't  believe  that." 

"Certainly  you  can't,  father." 

Through  the  sheer  curtains  of  her  bedroom  window 
Lavinia  watched  them — Lavinia  who  through  five  days 
of  shifting  from  one  detail  to  another  had  maintained 
the  mystery  of  her  fruitless  visit.  What  were  they  say- 
ing? She  strained  her  keen  ears,  to  catch  only  a  muffled 
note  of  solicitude.  Now  the  postman  loomed  in  sight. 
The  ubiquitous  postman!  If  he  had  not  delivered  that 
letter.  ...  In  her  rage,  she  began  to  abuse  the  post- 
man for  her  wretchedness,  the  collapse  of  her  iridescent 
bubble  of  happiness.  He  was  putting  into  David's  hand 
some  letters  and  a  paper,  the  Bromfield  Sentinel.  She 
had  forgotten  that  this  was  Thursday.  She  saw  her  hus- 
band open  the  crude  little  sheet  and  glance  at  the  Per- 
sonal Column,  where  he  so  often  found  news  of  a  friend 
he  had  not  seen  since  his  wedding  day.  A  long  agony 
of  waiting  .  .  .  and  David  thrust  the  paper  into  Judith's 
hand  and  walked  rapidly  away,  a  strange  look  on  his 
transparent  face. 

II 

What  had  he  seen  in  the  column  of  village  gossip? 
Lavinia  was  conscious  that  a  hornets'  nest  had  been  rent 
asunder,  above  her  head.  A  hundred  furious  possibilities 
buzzed  in  her  ears.  Stumbling  in  wild  agitation  to  the 
deep  closet  of  her  room,  she  took  a  leather-bound  volume 
from  her  Gladstone,  where  it  had  lain  since  her  return 
from  Detroit.  Without  opening  it,  she  fled  in  a  panic  to 
Vine  Cottage — burst  into  the  breakfast-room,  with  a 
fine  show  of  indignation,  and  flung  the  book  on  the  table. 

"There!  I'm  done  with  that  thing.  Browning's  a 
fool!" 


270  Indian  Summer 

"I'm  sorry  you  have  found  him  unprofitable.  He 
isn't  easy  reading." 

"I  have  as  much  sense  as  you  or  Mrs.  Henderson. 
You  made  me  believe  he  told  the  truth.  I  hate  a  liar. 
I  never  told  a  lie  in  my  life." 

"I  didn't  ask  you  to  take  the  volume,"  Judith  said 
pointedly. 

"No,  but  you  made  me  believe  there  was  something  in 
it — something  that  was  an  improvement  on  the 
Bible.  .  .  ." 

Her  daughter-in-law  took  up  the  offender  and  carried 
it  to  the  library.  When  she  returned,  there  was  a 
precipitate  relapse  into  a  chair.  Lavinia  had  improved 
the  interval  to  look  for  the  Sentinel.  It  was  not  in  the 
room.  A  bitter  tirade  poured  from  her  purple  lips. 
There  was  no  use  in  people  trying  to  shirk  responsibility. 
David  had  always  done  it.  So  had  Larimore.  They 
continually  placed  her  in  untenable  situations  and  then 
left  her  to  bear  the  consequences  alone.  She  had  had 
to  rear  the  family  single-handed,  to  take  all  the  responsi- 
bility for  their  moral  and  financial  welfare.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  her,  they  might  have  been  criminals  or 
tramps.  David  had  never  concerned  himself  for  her 
...  or  them. 

"Mother,  I  can't  listen  to  such  outrageous  injustice. 
I  have  never  seen  a  more  considerate  husband  than 
father  is  to  you.  Even  Lary,  with  all  his  tenderness,  and 
his  perfect  comradeship,  has  his  eyes  on  himself  most 
of  the  time.  Father  never  thinks  of  himself.  His 
whole  heart  is  given  to  you  and  his  children." 

"Yes,  and  he  hangs  over  me  until  he  drives  me  to  dis- 
traction. I'll  tell  him  where  I  have  been— if  he  doesn't 
stop  following  me  about — as  if  I  hadn't  a  right  to  go 
where  I  please." 


In  the  "Personal"  Column         271 
III 

Lavinia's  usual  solvent,  a  flood  of  tears,  failed  her. 
Dry-eyed  she  left  the  room,  forgetting  to  ask  for  the 
paper,  which  had  been  the  real  object  of  her  call.  Judith 
returned  to  the  library  and  took  down  the  volume  of 
Browning.  In  some  unfathomable  way  it  was  respon- 
sible for  the  distressing  situation.  As  she  turned  the 
pages,  pencil  marks  caught  her  eye.  A  line,  a  word  or 
two,  in  some  instances  an  entire  stanza  had  been  under- 
scored. They  were,  without  exception,  love  passages. 
Well  over  towards  the  back,  a  sheet  of  note  paper  came 
to  view,  covered  with  Lavinia's  tight,  precise  writing. 
If  Browning  would  change  the  subject,  just  when  you 
thought  you  had  grasped  his  meaning  ...  at  least,  you 
could  fling  your  net  over  the  elusive  concept  and  carry  it 
away — isolate  it  from  the  confusing  wealth  of  context. 

But  no!  This  was  more  than  random  copying. 
Widely  separated  passages  had  been  woven  together  into 
a  kind  of  confession  of  faith  .  .  .  like  lemon  jelly  in 
a  mould.  Judith,  as  she  read,  forgot  that  she  was  look- 
ing into  another  woman's  soul,  forgot  Lavinia,  in  the 
fascination  of  following  the  curious  windings  of  Lavinia's 
mind. 

"Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all.  Let  us  lean  and  love 
it  over  again.  Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall,  and  gather 
what  we  let  fall.  Each  life's  incomplete,  you  see.  I  follow  where 
I  am  led,  knowing  so  well  the  leader's  hand.  Oh,  woman,  wooed, 
not  wed !  When  we  loved  each  other,  lived  and  loved  the  same, 
till  an  evening  came  when  a  shaft  from  the  devil's  bow  pierced 
to  our  ingle-glow,  and  the  friends  were  friend  and  foe.  Never 
fear  but  there's  provision  of  the  devils  to  quench  knowledge,  lest 
we  walk  the  earth  in  rapture — making  those  who  catch  God's  secret 
just  so  much  more  prize  their  capture.  The  true  end,  sole  and 
single,  we  stop  here  for  is  this  love-way  with  some  other  soul  to 


272  Indian  Summer 

mingle.     How  is  it  under  our  control  to  love  or  not  to  love? 
Heart,  shall  we  live  or  die?    The  rest  .  .  .  settle  by  and  by." 

Judith  laid  the  sheet  in  its  place  and  returned 
the  volume  to  the  bookcase.  Yes,  David  was  right. 
But  what  a  weird  obsession!  Lavinia,  out  of  the 
pregnant  depths  of  her  misery,  had  fashioned  a  lover  to 
her  liking,  a  phantom  lover,  to  be  communed  with  in 
secret.  Had  she  gone  to  Detroit,  not  to  visit  Sylvia, 
but  to  seek  some  fantastic  realization  of  her  yearning  for 
the  perfect  romance?  Why  had  she  come  home,  shat- 
tered and  undone.  A  real  man  .  .  .  the  man  she  met 
in  the  Pullman  when  she  was  returning  from  Bromfield— 
the  man  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  her? 

She  paused  beside  the  table  where,  an  hour  ago,  she 
had  laid  the  Bromfield  paper.  She  looked  at  it  with 
vacant  eyes,  striving  to  clarify  her  turbid  thoughts. 
Gradually,  out  of  the  emptiness,  words  came  up  to  her, 
the  words  that  David  had  read,  at  the  head  of  the 
"personal"  column. 

"Our  distinguished  citizen,  Mr.  Calvin  Stone,  has  just  returned 
from  a  ten  days'  business  trip  to  Chicago." 

The  room  with  its  delicate  furnishings  faded,  as  when 
the  lights  are  suddenly  turned  off.  Judith  stared,  her 
heart  leaping  in  unrhythmic  cadence,  her  eyes  following 
the  monstrous  panorama  that  unrolled  before  her. 
Long  ago  she  had  gone  to  a  little  cinema  theatre  with 
Lary  and  the  girls,  where  black  dots  had  danced  on  a 
white  screen.  Black  dots  were  dancing  now,  on  the 
white  screen  of  her  memory. 

A  dozen  disjointed  fragments  of  conversation;  an 
old  story  her  grandmother  had  told  her,  of  a  secret 
wedding  in  Rochester;  Lavinia's  greedy  interest  in  the 
story,  in  all  that  pertained  to  Calvin  and  Lettie  Stone; 


In  the  "Personal"  Column         273 

her  determination  to  revisit  Bromfield  the  summer 
following  Mrs.  Stone's  death;  the  miracle  of  her  re- 
generation when  she  returned  home;  the  yellow  pallor 
on  her  face  when  she  put  the  question:  "Do  people  ever 
really  get  over  things?"  The  dots  had  woven 
themselves  into  a  succession  of  preliminary  shapes,  and 
all  at  once  the  picture  was  complete.  Lavinia's  secret 
lay  bare  before  her  daughter-in-law's  gaze. 

IV 

Outside  on  the  street  there  was  commotion.  Judith 
was  aroused  from  her  torpor  of  pain  by  Lavinia 
Trench's  voice,  strident  and  hysterical: 

"Carry  him  into  the  west  room.  You  can't  take  him 
upstairs  on  that  stretcher.  What  has  happened  to  him? 
Why  didn't  you  telephone  me?  David,  are  you  alive?" 

David  had  fallen  from  the  roof  of  the  Marksley  house. 
No  one  knew  what  had  caused  the  accident.  He  was 
standing  on  a  wide  ledge,  that  ought  to  have  been  secure. 
One  of  the  workmen  saw  him  stagger,  reel  backward  and 
come  crashing  down.  It  was  fortunate  that  he  did  not 
strike  the  stone  pavement.  That  would  have  been 
fatal.  He  was  apparently  only  stunned  by  the  fall. 

Judith  followed  the  curious  crowd  into  the  house  and 
bent  above  the  stricken  man,  while  his  wife  ran  panting 
up  the  stairs  to  prepare  his  bed.  He  opened  his  eyes 
and  his  lips  fashioned  inarticulate  words. 

"The  paper,"  she  saw  rather  than  heard,  "the  paper 
.  .  .  burn  it.  I  saw — in  a  flash — that  blinded  me — and 
I  fell. 


XXXVIII    The  Greater  Love 


The  consulting  surgeon  was  still  upstairs  with  Dr. 
Schubert  and  the  nurse.  In  the  sun-room,  the  Venetian 
blinds  drawn  to  shut  out  the  hot  July  rays,  the 
family  sat,  awaiting  the  verdict.  Sydney  and  Eileen  had 
hurried  home  from  the  West  in  response  to  a  conserva- 
tive telegram  from  Lary.  Sylvia  and  her  husband  were 
already  there.  The  meeting  of  the  sisters  was  reserved, 
befitting  the  occasion.  Now  Sylvia  forgot  her  father — 
her  growing  resentment  because  of  the  general  misunder- 
standing with  regard  to  her  mother's  alleged  visit — as  she 
gazed  across  the  spacious  room  at  the  beautiful  young 
woman  whom  she  could  with  difficulty  accept  as  Mrs. 
Sydney  Schubert. 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  she  whispered  to  Oliver. 
"You  know  what  a  raw,  scraggy  girl  she  was  when  we 
left  here.  I  couldn't  make  out  what  Hal  Marksley  saw 
in  her.  But  for  Syd — he  had  such  an  eye  for  beauty. 
He  never  went  with  a  girl  who  was  plain  or  homely. 
Mamma  never  wrote  us  how  she  had  changed." 

"I  told  you  a  long  time  ago,"  her  husband  retorted, 
"that  the  ugly  duckling  had  a  way  of  growing  into  the 
swan  of  the  family." 

Sylvia  flushed,  annoyed,  and  lapsed  into  silence. 

II 

Outside  the  passer-by  paused  to  look  curiously  at  the 
house.  David  Trench  hovered  between  life  and  death, 

274 


The  Greater  Love  275 

and  the  town  forgot  the  summer  heat  in  its  anxious 
sympathy.  No  one  had  known  what  a  great  man  he  was, 
what  an  irreparable  loss  his  death  would  mean  to  the 
community.  All  over  the  town  little  groups  of  prominent 
men  discussed  the  catastrophe  with  hushed  breathing. 
The  labourers  who  had  done  David's  bidding  for  years 
wiped  furtive  tears  from  their  eyes  when  they  were  told 
that  the  case  was  all  but  hopeless. 

Fifty — the  meridian  of  life!  A  younger  man  would 
stand  a  better  chance.  Dr.  Schubert  feared  a  spinal 
lesion.  Yet  the  shock  to  the  nervous  system  might 
account  for  the  torpor  that  had  prevailed,  with  fleeting 
lucid  intervals,  for  four  days.  If  that  were  all,  the 
human  machine  would  right  itself,  presently. 

Early  Sunday  morning  Mr.  Marksley  had  come  to  the 
house  to  inquire  about  the  patient,  and  to  repudiate  any 
responsibility  for  the  accident  .  .  .  and  had  encountered 
Lavinia  Trench's  tongue  in  a  manner  that  he  was  not 
likely  to  forget.  She  had  another  score  to  settle  with 
this  man  and  his  family,  unnamed  but  not  absent  from 
the  motive  power  of  her  attack.  The  outburst  had  a 
salutary  effect  on  the  woman  who,  after  the  first  excite- 
ment of  David's  home-coming,  had  moved  with  the 
automatism  of  a  sleep-walker.  When  he  had  gone,  she 
sought  Judith.  Larimore  must  go  at  once  and  arrange 
with  Dr.  Schubert  for  consultation,  the  best  surgeon  in 
St.  Louis. 

Ill 

When  they  were  alone,  she  fell  on  her  daughter-in-law's 
neck,  sobbing  hysterically:  "Oh,  oh,  oh,  if  he  dies  I  shall 
go  distracted.  He  doesn't  dare  to  die  ...  now.  If  he 
was  going  to  die,  why  couldn't  it  have  been  sooner?  Oh, 
my  God  in  heaven,  what  am  I  saying?  Judith,  can't  you 


276  Indian  Summer 

save  him?  Don't  you  know  what  it  would  mean  for  him 
to  die  now?" 

"Try  to  be  calm,  mother.  The  case  isn't  quite 
desperate." 

"Oh,  but  my  case  is  desperate.  You  don't  know.  .  .  . 
If  you  could  have  heard  him,  last  night!  He  said  the 
most  terrible  thing.  He  must  have  been  thinking  it,  or 
it  wouldn't  have  slipped  out  like  that,  when  his  mind 
was  wandering.  When  you  think  a  thing  over  and  over, 
you  say  it  without  meaning  to.  He  took  my  hands  and 
said  he  was  only  a  carpenter's  son  .  .  .  but  Ch — rist  was 
a  carpenter's  son,  too  .  .  .  and  it  was  worth  carrying  a 
cross  all  these  years,  to  have  me,  when  I  belonged  to 
another  man." 

"Mother!     Oh,  this  is  pitiful." 

"I  wanted  to  get  down  on  my  knees  and  tell  him  that  I 
never  belonged  to  any  other  man.  I  wanted  to  confess 
that  I  was  the  vilest  sinner,  and  unworthy  of  his  love. 
It  wasn't  me,  at  all.  I  was  standing  to  one  side,  looking 
at  David  and  me,  and  thinking  what  I  would  do  it  I  was 
in  Vine  Larimore's  place.  And  when  I  walked  away, 
there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  floor  under  my  feet." 

"Mother,  dear,  why  didn't  you  open  your  heart  to  him, 
when  you  were  so  close?" 

"No,  no !"  she  cried,  beating  back  the  suggestion  with 
baffled  hands.  "You  never  had  David  look  at  you  with 
condemnation.  Oh,  I  would  rather  have  him  slap  my 
face.  I  could  resent  that.  But  to  have  him  condemn— 
and  then  forgive.  .  .  ."  She  swayed  weakly,  all  her 
force  concentrated  in  the  relentless  mouth.  "Judith,  if 
he  dies,  it  will  be  on  my  head.  You  told  me  that  it  was 
as  bad  to  sin  in  thought  as  to  carry  out  the  desire. 
I  wanted  to  kill  David.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  I 
have  to  tell  you.  There  is  no  one  else  I  can  trust — and 


The  Greater  Love  277 

I'll  babble  it,  when  I  don't  know  I'm  talking,  if  I  don't 
get  it  out  of  my  mind." 

"How  do  you  mean,  mother?" 

"Twice  I  tried.  Once  when  you  were  in  Europe — 
when  his  health  was  so  poor — and  I  was  going  to  give  him 
the  wrong  medicine.  And  six  weeks  ago,  when  he 
brought  a  lot  of  money  home — and  I  thought  it  would 
look  as  if  a  burglar  did  it.  It  was  just  after  you  took 
Theo  to  New  York,  and  we  were  alone  in  the  house.  At 
the  last  moment,  my  courage  failed.  But  if  he  dies,  I 
will  be  held  accountable  for  his  murder.  Judith,  he  has 
to  live.  Don't  you  see.  .  .  ." 

IV 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  the  great  specialist  had 
been  sent  for.  Already  he  had  been  up  there  in  David's 
room  for  more  than  an  hour.  Now  a  door  was  opening, 
two  pairs  of  feet  were  descending  the  stairs.  Before 
those  in  the  sun-room  realized  it,  the  distinguished  man 
had  passed  to  the  waiting  cab  and  was  gone.  Lavinia 
was  on  her  feet,  aquiver  with  excitement. 

"Where  is  he  going?  I  want  to  ask  him  a  hundred 
questions." 

"He  has  told  me  everything  you  need  to  know,"  the  old 
family  physician  told  her  sternly.  "He  will  send  us 
another  nurse  from  St.  Louis — a  young  man  capable  of 
handling  a  dead  weight.  My  diagnosis,  unfortunately, 
was  correct." 

"Will  he  get  well?"  Lavinia's  lips  were  blue  and  her 
eyes  protruded. 

"We  must  wait  and  see.  He  will  be  paralysed  from 
the  waist  down." 

David  to  sit  in  a  wheel-chair  the  rest  of  his  life! 
Vine  staggered  from  the  room.  Her  daughter-in-law 


278  Indian  Summer 

followed,  fearful  for  one  or  the  other  of  those  two  actors 
in  life's  sorry  drama.  But  the  stricken  woman  only 
paused  an  instant  at  her  husband's  door,  and  passed  on 
to  the  performance  of  some  commonplace  duty.  Judith 
returned  to  the  lower  hall,  to  hear  Dr.  Schubert  say: 

"He  begged  me  not  to  let  them  prolong  his  life.  Said 
it  was  wrong  to  hang  on,  when  he  had  finished  his  task. 
He  would  have  a  fighting  chance,  if  he  had  the  least  re- 
cuperative desire.  David  doesn't  want  to  get  well.  He 
said  that  death  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of — after  a  man 
had  lived." 

"He  sees  an  honourable  way  out  of  the  hell  he  has  had 
for  thirty  years,"  Syd  muttered,  his  blue  eyes  wrathful, 
his  slender  hands  clenched.  "I  hope  there  is  a  heaven — 
that  he's  so  sure  of.  We  know  what  it  would  be  for  him 
here,  chained  down  to  a  pair  of  helpless  legs.  All  his 
life  he  has  walked  away  from  it,  when  he  had  taken  all 
he  could  endure.  It  would  break  Eileen's  heart  to  see 
her  father — " 

Out  in  the  kitchen  Drusilla  burst  all  at  once  into  song : 

"God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform. 
He  plants  His  footsteps  in  the  sea 

And  rides  upon  the  storm." 

The  nurse  hurried  down  to  check  the  stridulous  sing- 
ing, and  to  say  that  Mr.  Trench  wanted  to  see  his  two 
daughters,  Judith  and  Eileen,  together.  The  specialist 
had  said  it  would  do  him  no  harm  to  talk  quietly  with  his 
family. 

V 

At  the  threshold  Eileen  asked,  her  face  white  with 
grief:  "Judith,  did  I  do  this?  Am  I  to  blame  for  his 
fall?  Last  night  he  told  Theo  that  when  he  was  up  on 


The  Greater  Love  279 

that  ledge,  he  saw  something.  And  the  pity  and  horror 
of  it  made  him  lose  his  footing.  The  poor  baby  thought 
he  meant  the  burning  of  that  ugly  gable." 

"I  know  what  he  had  in  mind,  dear.  You  can  go  to 
him  without  a  pang  of  regret." 

A  moment  later  the  girl  was  kneeling  at  her  father's 
side.  There  was  no  blemish  on  the  beautiful  face,  no 
wasting,  as  of  disease,  and  the  blue  eyes  smiled  tenderly, 
their  smile  changing  to  protest,  as  she  cried : 

"Oh,  papa,  this  is  the  hardest  part  of  my  punishment — 
to  know  that  I  made  you  suffer.  If  only  I  had  known!" 

"You  brought  me  the  only  real  happiness  of  my  life. 
It  was  worth  all  I  paid.  When  I  saw  you — the  day  you 
came  home  from  Europe — I  almost  died  of  joy.  And 
when  I  heard  you  give  your  vow  to  Sydney,  I  said:  'My 
cup  runneth  over.'  I  know  now  why  Sylvia  had  to  treat 
him  so  cruelly.  I  asked  God  to  make  her  realize  his 
worth.  What  foolish  children  we  are,  when  we  pray. 
I  knew  the  sorrow  of  his  boyhood,  and  how  pure  his  heart 
was.  Eileen,  none  of  us  knew  that  he  had  to  minister 
to  a  gentle,  afflicted  mother,  all  those  years  .  .  .  just  to 
fit  him  to  be  your  husband." 

"Papa !"  The  girl's  tears  wet  her  father's  face. 
"And  only  you  could  have  seen  it.  There  isn't  another 
man  in  the  world  who  could  have  taken  me — without 
ever  humiliating  me — and  made  me  want  to  be  the  best 
woman  that  ever  lived." 

"And  you  won't  ever  forget  that  men  need  love?" 

"They  need  it  more  than  we  do.  Perhaps  I  can  make 
up  some  of  what  I  owe  you — when  I  take  care  of  Syd's 
father  .  .  .  make  his  home  bright  and  happy." 

David  stroked  her  hand,  his  eyes  wandering  to  the  face 
of  Judith  who  stood,  shaken  with  emotion,  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed. 


280  Indian  Summer 

"Come  to  me,  dear  daughter.  I  have  something  to 
tell  you,  while  I  have  my  wits  about  me.  It  may  be  our 
last  chance." 

The  woman  pressed  her  hand  to  her  quivering  chin, 
as  the  sobs  surged  up  in  her  throat.  Then  she  hid  her 
face  in  the  pillow,  her  cheek  close  to  the  dear  face,  so  that 
David  could  whisper  in  her  ear: 

"You  took  care  of  the  paper?  You  won't  let  her  know 
I  saw  it?  After  I  am  gone,  she  can  go  to  him  and  be 
happy.  I  forgive  them,  as  Christ  has  forgiven  me." 

"Father!     Now  I  can  believe  there  was  a  Christ." 

"It  wasn't  her  fault,  Judith.  You  were  never  harsh 
with  Eileen.  You  must  not  be  harsh  with  her.  She  was 
too  brilliant  for  me.  I  was  never  anything  but  a  drag. 
I  was  too  stupid  to  understand,  when  she  told  me  I  had 
won  her  away  from  him.  If  I  had  had  any  wit — but  I 
did  love  her  so!" 

It  was  not  a  wail  of  regret.  Just  a  simple  statement 
of  fact.  He  had  bought  a  priceless  treasure  and  had 
paid  for  it  with  the  sorrow  of  the  loveless  years.  He 
looked  up,  to  see  Eileen  gazing  in  troubled  wonder. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  so  much;  but  I  believe  it  would 
be  all  right  for  you  to  tell  her — about  her  mother.  If 
it  was  right  for  Eileen — it  couldn't  have  been  wrong 
for  her  mother.  We  can't  see  the  flowers  when  we 
put  the  ugly  bulbs  into  the  ground.  Perhaps  her  own 
child  can  help  you  show  her  the  path." 

"Father,  I  can't  endure  it,"  Judith  cried.  "It  was 
I  who  blundered.  I  tried  to,  show  her  the  way.  I 
didn't  know  what  her  ailment  was.  I  opened  the  wrong 
medicine." 

"You  gave  her  your  best.  That's  all  any  of  us  can 
do.  You  and  Eileen  and  I  have  suffered;  but  for  my 
poor  Vine  it  is  terrible.  She  had  so  much  love  to  give, 


The  Greater  Love  281 

and  it  was  all  sealed  up  in  her  heart  until  it — putrified 
—poisoned  her.  Tell  her  that  she  was  not  to  blame. 
Tell  her  that  .  .  .  Christ  died  ...  to  make  others 
.  .  .  happy.  .  .  ." 

The  words  trailed  off  in  a  half  audible  whisper,  and 
David  Trench  slept. 


XXXIX    Lavima 

i 

It  was  the  largest  funeral  Springdale  had  ever  seen. 
Lavinia  reflected,  with  grim  pride,  that  not  even  Presi- 
dent Henderson  had  called  forth  so  many  or  such 
magnificent  floral  tributes.  Dr.  Clarkson  conducted  the 
simple  service  and  the  Conservatory  Quartette  sang  the 
old  sweet  songs  that  David  loved.  With  uncovered 
heads  his  townsmen  stood  by  while  his  tired  body  sank 
to  rest.  Then  life  went  on  as  before. 

II 

Lavinia  and  Theodora  were  alone  in  the  big  house 
with  Drusilla.  Lary  thought  it  absurd  for  them  to 
occupy  so  much  room.  He  would  be  going  to  New 
York  in  the  early  fall,  now  that  Springdale  had  nothing 
to  hold  him.  His  mother  might  as  well  return  to  Vine 
Cottage.  She  had  built  the  great  Colonial  house  in  order 
to  make  a  propitious  marriage  for  Sylvia.  A  similar 
need  would  never  confront  her. 

"Move  into  this  little  place?  Indeed  I  shall  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  In  fact,  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  go  back  to  Bromfield." 

"Bromfield?"  The  tone  carried  something  danger- 
ously like  a  sneer. 

"The  town  was  good  enough  for  your  grandparents," 
his  mother  retorted  hotly.  "I  won't  have  a  relative 
left  here  but  Eileen,  and  she  will  certainly  never  be  any 
comfort  to  me.  It's  a  shame,  the  way  she  could  forget 


Lavinia  283 

her  father  in  less  than  a  month.  She  acts  as  if  Dr. 
Schubert  were  her  own  father.  I  don't  believe  she  has 
shed  a  tear.  No,  I  wouldn't  stop  a  day  in  Springdale 
for  that  ungrateful  girl." 

"But  your  friends  of  a  lifetime  are  here." 
"You  can  make  new  friends  in  New  York.  Why 
shouldn't  I?  You  think  of  me  as  an  old  woman,  Lari- 
more.  I  don't  like  it.  The  day  has  gone  by  when  a 
woman  of  fifty  has  to  sit  in  the  chimney-corner.  I  have 
written  to  Ted,  telling  him  that  I  want  to  buy  back  the  old 
home.  You  shall  remodel  it  for  me.  That  would  be 
a  work  you  could  take  pride  in — the  house  your  great- 
grandfather built." 

Ill 

When  Lavinia  and  Judith  were  alone,  the  real 
purpose  of  the  former's  early  morning  call  revealed  it- 
self: 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  far  you  can  hold  a  person 
to  a  promise — a  voluntary  promise,  written  on  paper 
and  signed." 

"It  depends — "  Judith  eyed  her  narrowly — "on  the 
nature  of  the  one  who  makes  the  promise.  I  wouldn't 
give  a  fig  for  all  the  contracts  that  ink  and  paper  could 
record,  if  there  were  no  volition — " 

"Yes,  but  I  am  sure — that  is,  I  think  I  have  a  right 
to  demand.  .  .  ."  She  swallowed  hard  and  a  hunted 
look  invaded  the  black  eyes.  "Would  it  be  all  right 
for  me  to — to  ask  for  some  satisfaction,  some  decision? 
You  can't  let  things  go  on  in  uncertainty.  You  have  to 
come  to  an  understanding.  I — that  is,  I  don't  think  my 
brother  has  treated  me  right.  Would  you  send  the 
letter?" 

"Use  your  own  judgment,  mother.     You  know  what 


284  Indian  Summer 

a  wretched  failure  I  made  of  my  former  attempts  to 
advise  you." 

"No,  Judith,  that  was  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you. 
I  have  thought  it  all  out,  and  have  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that — that  I  had  to  do  everything  just  as  it  came 
about.  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you — but  I  begin 
to  see  how  good  comes  out  of  evil — how  I  had  to  suffer 
to  gain  my  happiness." 

At  the  door  she  turned,  to  ask,  as  if  she  were  consult- 
ing a  sorceress:  "Would  you  advise  me  to  write  the 
letter — a  very  plain  one?" 

"Suspense  is  deadly.  I  should  relieve  my  mind,  at 
any  cost,"  her  daughter-in-law  said  dryly.  It  was 
Lavinia  Trench's  self-justification,  the  mind  that  could 
mould  the  universe  into  a  pedestal  for  the  support  of 
her  righteousness.  It  would  be  this  way  to  the  end. 
Nothing  would  ever  change  her.  David  was  dead,  and 
a  letter  of  condolence  had  come  from  Calvin  Stone,  a 
letter  that  all  the  world  might  read.  In  all  likelihood 
there  had  been  no  other  word  from  him,  since  Lavinia 
was  free  ...  to  make  uncomfortable  demands. 

She  went  home  and  wrote.  With  her  own  hands  she 
carried  the  letter  to  the  office,  to  insure  delivery.  It 
had  occurred  to  her  to  register  it  ...  her  feet  tugging 
to  free  themselves  from  the  quicksand  of  doubt  that 
spread  all  around  her.  But  Drusilla  or  Larimore  might 
take  the  receipt  from  the  postman's  hand.  Besides,  it 
would  be  a  confession  of  the  fear  that  was  in  her.  She 
must  not  act  as  if  there  were  any  question  of  her  right, 
in  this  matter.  To  Lavinia  it  was  still  "this  matter." 
She  did  not  name  it,  even  to  herself. 

IV 

Six  tortured  days  she  waited,  and  then  the  response 


Lavinia  285 

came.  Theodora  ran  in  terror  to  Judith,  her  black  eyes 
wide,  her  cheeks  ashen. 

"What  is  it,  precious?  Don't  stand  there  shaking 
like  that." 

"It's  my  mamma,  and  she's — I  think  she's  gone  crazy." 

"Because  of  something — a  letter  that  came  a  few 
minutes  ago?"  She  had  the  child  in  her  arms,  soothing 
her  with  gentle  caresses. 

"Oh,  Sister  Judith,  what  could  my  uncle  write  that 
would  make  anyone  as  furious  as  that?  Last  night 
she  couldn't  sleep — because  she  said  our  whole  life  de- 
pended on  the  letter  she  was  looking  for.  She  made  me 
come  and  get  in  bed  with  her,  and  she  told  me  about 
Bromfield  till  I  fell  asleep  in  her  arms." 

"And  your  uncle  refused  to  let  her  have  the  old 
home?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  up  on  the  third  floor  with 
Drusilla,  and  all  at  once  I  knew  that  I  was  needed  down 
stairs.  When  I  was  half  way  down  the  hall — there 
stood  my  mamma  like  a  statue.  She  didn't  see  me,  any 
more  than  if  I'd  been  a  spook  without  any  body.  And  all 
at  once  she  began  running  back  and  forth  and  tearing  the 
letter  to  bits.  And  then  she  threw  them  on  the  floor  and 
stamped  on  them.  She  didn't  speak  one  single  word. 
That  was  the  awful  part — to  be  as  mad  as  that,  and  take 
it  out  in  just  jumping  up  and  down !" 

"Stay  here,  dearie.  Or,  no — "  after  a  moment's 
thought — "I  want  you  to  go  and  spend  the  day  with 
Eileen.  Don't  tell  her  about  the  letter.  Dutton  can 
drive  you  over  in  the  car.  You  won't  need  a  hat." 

V 

Judith  surmised  that  Lavinia  would  not  miss  the  child. 
For  an  hour  there  was  no  sign  of  life  in  the  big  house. 


286  Indian  Summer 

Then  the  widow  emerged  clad  in  all  her  weeds.  From 
the  florist's  shop,  at  the  corner,  she  returned  with  a  great 
cornucopia.  It  was  evident  that  her  destination  was  the 
cemetery,  and  that  she  intended  to  walk.  For  Lavinia 
Trench,  on  a  steamy  August  day,  such  a  walk  was  nothing 
short  of  a  penance. 

Noon  went  by  ...  one,  two  o'clock  .  .  .  and  she 
came  staggering  up  the  steps,  and  into  the  cool  living- 
room  of  Judith  Trench's  home.  Without  a  word  she 
sank  into  the  nearest  chair  and  drew  aside  the  crepe  veil, 
revealing  a  countenance  from  which  every  vestige  of 
youth  had  been  erased.  With  the  toe  of  her  small  shoe 
she  began  to  trace  the  winding  pattern  of  the  Oriental 
rug,  her  lips  set  hard  together. 

"Take  off  your  hat,  mother.  You  don't  want  that 
hot  veil  around  your  neck." 

"Yes,  I'll  take  it  off.  I  don't  intend  ever  to  wear  the 
thing  again.  If  it  isn't  in  your  heart — crepe  veils  and 
flowers  on  graves  won't  put  it  there.  Oh,  my  God  in 
heaven,  why  did  David  have  to  die — at  such  a  time? 
What  right  had  he  to  die — and  expose  me  to  such  an 
insult?" 

She  had  hurled  the  mourning  hat  from  her,  and  sat 
staring  at  her  moist  shaking  hands.  Then  came  the 
reaction,  a  flood  of  colour,  not  scarlet  but  dull  raspberry, 
that  spread  over  neck,  cheek  and  brow.  Stiffening  in 
her  chair,  she  cried: 

"It  was  you  who  did  it,  Judith  Ascott,  every  bit  of  it." 

"I  did  what?"  Judith's  eyes  blazed  with  sudden 
anger.  No,  she  would  no  longer  palliate  .  .  .  spare 
this  woman,  who  had  always  contrived  to  shift  responsi- 
bility to  shoulders  less  blameworthy  than  her  own,  who 
had  taken  the  best  she  could  snatch  from  life,  giving  not 
even  decent  gratitude  in  return. 


Lavinia  287 

"You  said  that  Sydney  married  Eileen  and  made  her 
happy,  because  she  didn't  resist  the  temptation  to  do 
wrong." 

"Oh,  how  monstrous!" 

"Well,  I  hope  you  aren't  going  to  deny  that  you  told 
me,  point-blank,  that  nothing  but  a  broken  axle  prevented 
you  from  being  untrue  to  your  husband.  Was  it  my  fault 
that  the  axle  didn't  break  for  me?"  She  talked  wildly, 
her  thin  neck  drawn  and  throbbing. 

"I  blundered  horribly  when  I  said  those  things  to  you. 
I  thought  you  were  a  woman  who  could  handle  an 
abstract  idea.  I  didn't  know  that  everything  I  said  must 
necessarily  have  a  personal  application.  If  I  had  under- 
stood why  you  were  unhappy  ...  if  you  had  told  me 
the  truth,  instead  of  leaving  me  to  guess  it,  after  the 
mischief  was  done — " 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you — told  such  a  thing  to  a 
stranger  .  .  .  when  I  never  more  than  half  admitted  it 
to  myself?" 

"No,  I  am  sure  you  couldn't  have  told  me.  It  is  just 
the  awful  fatality,  that  I  should  have  put  weapons  into 
your  hand  that  would  wound  you — the  very  knives  that 
removed  the  false  growth  from  Eileen's  spirit." 

"Yes,  and  if  the  cancer  is  deep  inside — if  it  grows  out 
of  your  heart  .  .  .  the  more  you  cut  it  away,  the 
stronger  it  grows.  God  knows,  I  tried  to  tear  it  out  by 
the  roots.  I  tried  three  times  to  hate — " 

VI 

Judith  drew  near  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  frantic 
woman's  arm. 

"Mother,  it  is  the  saddest  case  I  have  ever  known.  If 
I  assure  you  of  my  pity  and  my  earnest  wish  to  help  you 
.  .  .  for  Lary's  sake,  and  Theo's,"  Judith  raised  a  hand 


288  Indian  Summer 

that  checked  the  bitter  outburst,  "will  you  talk  to  me  with 
absolute  frankness?  You  can't  bear  this  hideous  thing 
alone.  You  can't  take  it  to  your  daughter." 

"Sylvia  1  I  would  as  soon  put  my  hand  in  the  fire,  and 
expect  not  to  be  burned.  She  would  throw  me  out  of  her 
house,  as  an  abandoned  woman.  She  is  hard  and  selfish 
and  cruel.  I  don't  know  where  she  gets  such  a  nature." 

"We  won't  talk  of  Sylvia  now." 

"No,  I  hope  I'll  never  see  her  again.  And  .  .  . 
Judith  ...  I  am  going  to  tell  you  .  .  .  from  the  begin- 
ning. You  know  already — the  worst  of  it.  David 
knew,  the  night  before  he  died.  That's  why  I  had  to  run 
away,  when  I  tried  to  lay  the  roses  on  his  grave.  It 
made  me  wild  with  rage  ...  to  know  he  was  pitying 
me." 

She  rocked  to  and  fro  a  moment,  as  if  to  settle  the 
sequence  of  her  story.  Then  her  eyes  blazed  with  a 
challenging  light. 

"You  are  a  cold  woman.  You  can  sit  there  and  weigh 
me  .  .  .  like  a  pound  of  steak.  You  never  knew  what 
it  was  to  want  something  with  your  whole  mind  and  body 
and  soul.  You  are  not  capable  of  a  passion  that  would 
burn  you  to  a  cinder.  There  are  not  many  women  with 
as  deep  a  nature  as  mine.  It  began  when  I  was  fourteen 
—a  plain  little  thing  like  Theo  is,  now.  The  night  of 
Edith  Trench's  Hallowe'en  party — and  David  begged 
his  sister  to  invite  me.  All  the  others  were  grown, 
nearly.  I  happened  to  be  standing  in  a  dark  corner, 
under  some  mistletoe,  and  Calvin  Stone  tiptoed  up  be- 
hind me  and  grabbed  me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  me. 

"That  night  I  couldn't  sleep  .  .  .  nor  the  next  one. 
Everything  was  changed.  For  two  years,  I  used  to 
almost  die  when  I  saw  him  out  with  the  older  girls. 
Then  he  went  away  to  Buffalo,  to  business  college,  and  I 


Lavinia  289 

began  to  grow  pretty.  It's  a  way  we  have  in  my  father's 
family.  When  he  came  home,  he  fairly  swept  me  off  my 
feet.  If  David  had  ever  made  love  to  me  the  way  Calvin 
did —  The  room  would  swim  before  my  eyes  when  he 
kissed  me.  He  wanted  me  to  marry  him  right  away. 
But  in  Bromfield  that  would  have  made  a  scandal.  A 
girl  didn't  dare  to  seem  too  anxious. 

"After  about  a  year  he  began  to  cool  off.  I  waited 
two  years  more,  and  then  I  married  David.  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  why.  Calvin  went  to  Rochester  and 
married  that  Fournier  girl.  She  made  him  marry  her. 
Thank  goodness,  I  was  safe  in  Olive  Hill  before  they  let 
it  out  that  they  were  married.  But  the  truth  has  leaked 
out  at  last.  It  always  does,  no  matter  how  smart  you 
think  you  are  in  concealing  it." 

She  stopped.  This  was  not  what  she  wanted  to  say — 
or  believe.  A  deep  nausea  overcame  her.  Eileen's 
secret  .  .  .  her  own!  But  no,  she  was  making  confes- 
sion. It  would  not  go  any  further,  if  she  told  Judith 
all  ...  to  the  last  wicked  detail. 

"Ellen  thought  all  along  that  I  married  David  for 
spite;  but  she  doesn't  know  that  I  never  got  over  loving 
Calvin  Stone.  When  I  was  first  married  I  used  to  lie 
awake  nights,  thinking  of  the  time  when  David  and  Lettie 
would  both  be  dead,  and  I  could  have  the  man  I  wanted. 
I  forced  David  to  make  good,  so  that  I  could  taunt  Calvin. 
After  he  moved  back  to  Bromfield — when  his  father 
broke  down,  and  he  had  to  take  charge  of  the  bank — 
Ellen  and  Lettie  were  friends.  That  way,  I  learned  a 
good  deal  about  them.  I  saved  all  her  letters  that 
mentioned  Calvin.  The  others  I  put  in  the  fire,  as  soon 
as  David  had  read  them.  The  bundle  I  want  buried  with 
me.  It  was  reading  them  over  and  over  that  made  me 
the  woman  I  am  now." 


290  Indian  Summer 

"Mother,  can't  you  go  home  and  burn  them — blot  this 
hateful  thing  from  your  mind — now  when  your  heart  is 
soft  because  of  father?" 

"David  Trench!  He  doesn't  count,  one  way  or  the 
other.  David  was  never  anything  but  a  makeshift  in  my 
life.  If  he  had  abused  me,  instead  of  giving  me  all  that 
affection,  it  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad.  I  didn't  want 
his  love,  and  I  despised  him  because  he  could  go  on  loving 
me  .  .  .  the  way  I  treated  him.  I  hated  my  children, 
because  he  was  their  father.  After  they  came,  I  loved 
them  for  what  I  could  see  of  myself  in  them.  Isabel  was 
so  like  her  father  that  it  was  comical — and  I  could  hardly 
bear  to  touch  her.  Judith,  think  of  being  a  wife  for 
almost  thirty  years  to  a  man  you  hated!  You  couldn't 
have  gone  through  it." 

"No,  I  would  have  run  away." 

"But  I  hadn't  any  place  to  run  to.  I  was  caught,  like 
a  hungry  rat  in  a  trap.  I  could  look  out  through  the  bars 
and  see  all  the  things  I  wanted,  beyond  my  reach.  When 
I  did  drag  something  inside,  it  turned  out  to  be  different 
from  what  I  expected.  When  we  celebrated  our  silver 
wedding,  the  minister  told  how  we  were  the  ideal  couple, 
that  God  had  joined  together  in  our  cradles.  It  was  the 
vilest  mockery.  But  David  was  so  proud." 

"And  you  never  saw  his  worth — never  responded  to 
his  tenderness?" 

"Not  until  I  came  home  from  Bromfield,  two  years 
ago.  That  was  the  only  time  David  and  I  came  together, 
in  all  those  years.  I  never  knew  how  handsome  he  was 
until  I  had  been  looking  at  Calvin  every  day  for  a  month. 
And  his  appearance  wasn't  all  of  it.  I  had  made  up  my 
mind,  while  I  was  still  at  Ellen's,  that  I  was  going  to  treat 
David  different.  You  couldn't  help  seeing  that  I  had  all 
the  best  of  the  bargain.  The  house  Calvin  built,  ten 


Lavinia  291 

years  ago,  is  no  comparison  to  mine.  And  he  had  to 
mortgage  it  to  the  limit,  when  his  son  got  into  trouble. 
Lately  he  sold  it,  to  keep  from  losing  it  outright.  That 
was  when  I  wrote  him  that  I  would  buy  back  the  old  house 
from  my  brother.  But  that's.  .  .  .  I'll  come  to  that, 
later  on.  All  those  years  I  had  been  thinking  of  David 
as  a  poor  carpenter,  and  Calvin  as  a  banker,  in  fine 
society.  And  when  I  found  out  that  he  didn't  have  near 
as  much  as  I  had — " 

"I  see  how  you  found  your  deep  satisfaction." 

"No,  you  don't.  It  wasn't  just  the  money,  and 
David's  position  in  Springdale — on  the  Board  of 
Trustees,  and  all  that.  I  got  my  real  triumph  after  I 
started  for  home.  I  had  snubbed  Calvin  and  tormented 
him  in  every  way  I  could.  I  wasn't  going  to  let  him  think 
I  went  to  Bromfield  on  his  account.  Besides,  I  wanted 
to  hurt  him,  for  the  way  he  had  treated  me.  I  thought 
I  would  take  it  out  on  him,  and  that  would  end  it.  If  I 
had  been  trying  to  win  him,  I  couldn't  have  used  better 
tactics. 

"I  was  on  the  train  and  we  were  pulling  out  of 
Rochester  when  he  came  walking  in  the  Pullman.  At 
first  he  pretended  to  be  surprised.  Said  he  was  going  to 
Buffalo  on  business.  After  a  while  he  owned  up  that  he 
had  come  .  .  .  because  he  wanted  to  be  alone  with  me. 
He  told  me  that  his  life  had  been  hell  on  earth,  and  he 
was  glad  when  Lettie  died.  He  even  said  that  if  David 
should  die,  he  would  go  to  the  end  of  the  world  to  compel 
me  to  marry  him." 

"The  boor!" 

Lavinia  ignored  the  comment.  Hot  lava  was  pouring 
from  the  crater  of  her  wretchedness,  lava  long  pent  up, 
and  such  flimsy  obstacles  as  her  daughter-in-law's  disgust 
were  swept  away  unnoticed  in  its  stream. 


292  Indian  Summer 

"I  told  him  he  wasn't  fit  for  David  Trench  to  wipe  his 
feet  on.  I  didn't  mean  it  ...  but  I  talk  that  way  when 
I  am  beside  myself.  When  I  repulsed  David,  he  would 
look  hurt  and  walk  away.  But  it  only  made  Calvin  more 
determined.  He  said  he  would  lie  down  and  let  me  wipe 
my  feet  on  him.  And  then  he  said  something  sneering 
about  'Dave  Trench.'  I  flew  into  a  rage — and  he  said  I 
always  was  a  beauty  when  I  was  angry.  Afterwards  he 
almost  cried  when  he  begged  me  to  show  some  little  spark 
of  affection  for  him.  He  was  always  that  way  .  .  . 
wanted  what  he  thought  he  couldn't  get.  I  see  the  whole 
thing  now,  as  plain  as  day.  It  is  easy  to  see  things,  when 
it's  too  late.  If  the  minister  hadn't  preached  that  ser- 
mon about  helping  to  redeem  sinners  by  making  them 
suffer,  and  you  hadn't  told  me  all  that  other  .  .  .  about 
it  being  worse  to  want  to  sin  than  to  come  right  out  and 
do  the  thing  you  wanted.  .  .  ." 

Judith  shifted  uneasily  in  her  chair.  Her  own  indict- 
ment was  surely  on  the  way.  She  had  no  choice  but  to 
see  the  play  through,  to  the  final  curtain. 

"He  began  writing  to  me,  on  one  pretext  or  another. 
I  didn't  answer  more  than  half  of  his  letters.  And  the 
meaner  I  treated  him,  the  more  devoted  he  grew.  All 
that  time  I  was  falling  in  love  with  David — and  I  didn't 
hesitate  to  tell  Calvin  so.  It  seemed  to  make  him  wild. 
The  very  day  I  found  out  about  Eileen,  I  had  had  a 
letter  from  him  that  I  was  ashamed  to  read,  in  my  own 
room.  I  believe  that  letter  would  have  finished  him  for 
me  ...  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Eileen. 

"When  he  heard  about  Larimore's  marriage,  he  wrote 
again — and  asked  me  to  forgive  him  for  writing  the 
other  letter.  But  he  said  his  love  for  me  drove  him  to 
it.  And  at  the  same  time,  David  was  acting  like  a 
paralytic  old  woman — just  crushed  by  what  Eileen  had 


Lavinia  293 

done.  I  couldn't  help  seeing  the  difference.  I  knew 
what  Calvin  would  have  done,  if  he  had  had  a  daughter 
act  that  way.  He  would  have  put  his  son  in  jail,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Lettie." 

"You  needed  a  masterful  man.  David  was  too 
gentle.  .  .  ." 

"He  never  was  any  match  for  me  ...  in  any  way. 
If  I  hadn't  snapped  him  up,  the  night  after  Mr.  Stone  told 
me  that  Calvin  was  married.  .  .  ."  She  shook  herself, 
as  if  to  free  her  body  from  some  insidious  lethargy  that 
was  creeping  over  her. 

"While  you  and  Larimore  were  in  Europe,  it  got  to  be 
like  a  continued  story  in  a  magazine.  I  kept  wondering 
what  would  happen  next.  I  had  cut  loose  from  David, 
and  I  couldn't  keep  my  mind  off  of  Calvin.  After  you 
came  home  with  Eileen,  and  I  had  the  long  talk  with  you, 
the  story  took  a  different  turn.  Still  ...  I  don't  be- 
lieve anything  would  have  come  of  it  if  Calvin  hadn't  had 
to  take  a  business  trip  to  Chicago.  He  wrote,  in  a  kind 
of  joking  way,  that  if  I  would  run  up  there  and  spend  a 
few  days  with  him,  David  would  divorce  me  and  we 
could  be  married  at  once.  That  was  last  April.  I  wrote 
back  that  I  wouldn't  think  of  such  a  thing — and  that  men 
didn't  marry  the  women  who  forgot  their  morals — except 
at  the  point  of  a  gun.  He  answered,  with  a  kind  of 
marriage  compact — no  matter  what  might  come  up — he 
would  marry  me  as  soon  as  I  was  free.  He  had  to  go  to 
Chicago  again  in  July.  I  told  him  I  would  see  him  in 
Sylvia's  home,  on  his  way  out,  and  we  could  talk  things 
over,  and  come  to  an  understanding.  It  was  all  Lari- 
more's  fault  that  the  whole  thing  turned  out  wrong." 

"How  Lary's  fault?" 

"You  know  he  wouldn't  let  me  start  in  time  to  catch 
Calvin  in  Detroit.  Then  I  planned  to  go  by  way  of 


294  Indian  Summer 

Chicago,  and  see  him  between  trains.  But  Larimorc 
insisted  on  getting  the  ticket  direct.  There  was  only  one 
thing  for  me  to  do.  I  wired  Calvin,  and  sent  a  special 
letter  to  Sylvia,  saying  I  wouldn't  be  in  Detroit  until 
Tuesday  noon.  I  planned  to  get  into  Chicago  early 
Monday  morning,  and  go  back  to  Detroit  that  night. 
I  wrote  the  letter  to  David  while  I  was  waiting  at  the 
station,  Sunday  afternoon.  The  rest  of  it — after  Calvin 
met  me — is  like  a  dream,  a  miserable  dream.  So  much 
has  happened  since  then. 

"That  evening  he  made  me  miss  my  train.  After  I 
had  been  with  him  a  while,  I  was  limp  as  a  rag  in  his 
hands.  He  always  had  that  way  with  women.  I  didn't 
want  to  go.  All  the  years  of  my  misery  had  dissolved. 
I  was  like  a  starved  person  at  a  banquet  .  .  .  seventeen 
again,  and  Calvin  acting  like  a  boy  out  of  school.  But 
the  second  day  he  began  to  change.  He  told  me  to  quit 
acting  like  an  old  fool — said  it  wasn't  becoming  in  people 
of  our  age.  If  David  had  ever  said  anything  like  that 
to  me — "  Her  hands  worked  convulsively  and  the  teeth 
gave  forth  a  sharp,  gritting  sound.  "I  tried  to  be  the 
way  Calvin  wanted  me,  and  everything  I  did  was  wrong. 
Once  I  flared  up,  and  he  told  me  to  cut  that  out — that  it 
was  because  of  my  vile  temper  that  he  didn't  marry  me 
thirty  years  ago." 

"And  you  are  going  to  discipline  yourself,  mother,  so 
that  after  your  year  of  mourning  you  can  marry  him  and 
be  happy?" 

"Marry  him!"  A  shrill  laugh  burst  from  Lavinia's 
lips.  "Marry  him!  He  was  married  last  Saturday  to  a 
rich  widow  in  Rochester.  That  isn't  the  worst  of  it.  I 
had  written  him  the  plainest  kind  of  letter — about  the 
house  we  would  remodel — and  the  contract  he  had  sent 
me  in  April.  They  read  it  together.  They  are  laughing 


Lavinia  295 

at  me  now.  God,  I  can't  stand  it!  To  have  them  gloat 
over  me !  I  could  tear  my  heart  out  and  stamp  on  it.  I 
could  curse.  I  could  spit  in  the  face  of  the  God  that 
made  me.  Why  did  you  advise  me  to  write  the  letter? 
It  was  you — you — " 

She  had  leaped  from  her  chair,  her  face  livid,  her  arms 
writhing.  Judith  tried  to  speak.  Her  tongue  was 
paralysed.  She  had  looked  into  the  soul  of  the  woman 
who  bore  Larimore  Trench,  and  the  sight  turned  her  sick 
with  horror.  Then  a  piercing  scream,  a  startled  cry, 
another  scream,  and  Lavinia  crumpled  down  in  her  chair, 
clasping  her  hands  to  her  right  side,  shrieking  and  moan- 
ing by  turns. 

"Mother,  what  has  happened  to  you?  Let  me  send 
for  a  doctor." 

"No,  no,  don't  leave  me!"  A  long  wail  of  anguish 
indescribable — and  she  put  forth  a  restraining  hand. 
"Don't  you  know  what  has  happened  to  me?  Can't  you 
see  that  I  am  dying?  Dr.  Schubert  told  me  two  years 
ago  that  there  was  danger.  I  didn't  believe  him.  .  .  ." 

She  choked  back  another  cry  of  pain,  cringing  until 
her  right  cheek  almost  touched  her  knee.  Then  she 
straightened  herself  and  went  on,  through  set  teeth : 

"You  will  take  Theo,  Judith,  and  keep  her  for  your 
own?  I  wouldn't  want  Sylvia  to  have  her.  You  won't 
let  her — miss  the  path?" 

"I  will  give  her  the  best  I  have,  mother.  I  know  what 
you  mean."  She  stopped  speaking,  fascinated  by  the 
tinge  of  green  that  crept  slowly  up  the  stricken  woman's 
cheeks.  The  same  dull  green  was  advancing  along  the 
arms,  where  the  black  sleeves  were  drawn  up.  Lavinia 
saw  it,  too.  She  knew  the  portent.  Once  before,  she 
had  seen  that  wave  of  green  that  moved  with  deadly 
precision  beneath  the  skin. 


296  Indian  Summer 

"It's  the  gall.  It  has  burst.  My  grandmother  died 
that  way.  She  flew  into  a  rage — after  the  doctor  warned 
her  not  to.  I  taste  it,  now  .  .  .  bitter  ...  in  my 
throat.  .  .  ."  She  coughed  spasmodically,  and  closed 
her  eyes. 

VII 

Judith  ran  to  the  telephone.  She  told  Lary  that  his 
mother  had  fainted.  To  Eileen  she  said  bluntly: 
"Mother  is  dying.  Send  one  of  the  doctors." 

Eileen  called  a  dozen  numbers  before  she  located  either 
Sydney  or  his  father.  Then  she  left  her  little  sister  in 
Nanny's  care  and  hurried  to  Vine  Cottage. 

When  the  old  family  physician  reached  the  house, 
Lavinia  Trench  had  passed  beyond  human  aid.  He  drew 
Judith  into  the  breakfast  room  and  asked,  unsteadily: 

"Was  there  a  violent  outburst?  Grief  wouldn't 
account  for  it  ...  nor  remorse." 

The  woman  nodded,  her  throat  swelling. 

"Don't  tell  Lary.  He  need  not  know.  He  wouldn't 
understand.  Women  are  so  different,  Dr.  Schubert.  I 
wouldn't  want  Lary  to  despise  his  mother.  She  wasn't 
wholly  to  blame — that  the  frost  came  too  late." 

THE  END 


ERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY 


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